


Nobody's Fault (But Mine)

by beekeepercain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Apocalypse, Chuck as God, Destiel - Freeform, Developing Relationship, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Dystopia, Episode: s05e04 The End, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Kittens, Love/Hate, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of sexual violence, Multi, Not A Fix-It, Plot Driven, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Supernatural AU: Croatoan/End'verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:28:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 64
Words: 206,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/beekeepercain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>    <i>"Gonna change my ways tonight</i><br/><i>Nobody's fault but mine"</i><br/>~ Led Zeppelin</p>
  <p> </p>
</div>The war is lost and the last men standing have fallen, but as if God wasn't yet done with his playthings, the show must go on. If there is a purpose - some grand scheme waiting to unfold - it certainly remains hidden from Dean Winchester.
            </blockquote>





	1. Reanimated

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic as a short fix-it-all around October last year, wrote a single page and forgot it existed because GISHWHES and then NaNoWriMo. After getting stuck at my parent's place after Christmas for a much longer while than I had thought, I found the fic from my iPod and thought what the heck, why not? I'll give it another shot. The End is, after all, quite a good episode with a lot of potential, and I had nothing but time in my hands.
> 
> In a single week, I had written more than that 50,000 words that had taken the whole month back with NaNo, and therefore, this fic now holds the records of being both my longest work to the date as well as the fastest written work, ever.  
> I'm just going to say that it's going to take a while to publish in full.  
> I've also come to the conclusion that the next time I say I'm going to fix something, my hands need to be chopped off before I go forth and ruin everything. I do a neat job at making everything better, just like a tsunami does at cleaning up the damage caused by the initial magnitude 9 earthquake.
> 
> Absolutely terrified of all the mistakes I might have made here - please pay them no mind. I've tried to smooth them out and the few that ended up being important to my... plot... I'm trying to make plausible excuses for later on.

 

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~  
  


**August 2014**

 

"I am... so tired of... miracles," the man uttered silently, his every word dripping down from his mouth like drops of blood, thick and unwilling.  
They left behind tracks inside his throat; drying, rough tracks.  
Castiel held him still, his eyes upon the wall of the house behind them.  
"There are no miracles," he then said, slowly and certainly, his tone heavy with what sounded like regret or hopelessness, "There's only punishment."

A smile passed Dean's features before he closed his eyes. He reached out with his hand, muscles trembling, and grabbed the shoulder of the man who was holding him.  
"Cas, I'm -" 

"No," Castiel cut him off, "You are not sorry. And I do not expect you to be. It serves no purpose. Everyone is dead. We are dead. This world is dead. Don't be sorry. We lost the war a long time ago - your regret will change nothing."

The younger's hand let go of the angel and landed softly back upon his aching chest. A lonely tear dripped down the side of his face that was tilted towards the ground - its pair got stuck in his eye and blurred his vision on that side.  
Thunder struck again, but the storm was passing. They both considered getting up but found no reason to do so. Dean felt his toes twitching according to his commands. He was relieved for that. It was a light in an otherwise completely dark spot. His spine hurt like someone had thrust tiny daggers between each and every vertebra up to the very bottom of his skull and he feared the moment he'd have to move. Death would have been a gift to him, one that he had been refused over and over again. The rain was digging underneath his clothes, soaking the parts that weren't yet throughoutly cold and wet.  
His nose picked up the scent of blood, and with enormous effort, he opened his eyes again. He looked at Castiel. The other was pale above him, sickly so, his eyes were surrounded by dark rings and his normally light pink lips had hardly any colour left to them.  
Again, Dean raised his hand, but it soon fell back on his chest. He did not know what he wanted to do with it - or what he even could. Each movement of his muscles was like burning, molten iron flooding into his bones and tendons.  
Castiel lowered his eyes to him and for a moment, there was a connection between them. Dean swallowed thickly, finding his throat extremely sore and his muscles far from willing to perform. He felt ashamed and bitter and he wanted a gun so he could shoot both their brains out, Castiel's first and then his own, end it for good. But knowing the way things went, he'd simply find himself gathering the bits of his brains off of the grass, still alive despite residing in a broken, uninhabitable body. Perhaps this was hell, a whole different kind from the previous one, but a hell just as horrible and nightmarish nonetheless. A place of endless suffering where death meant nothing. Or perhaps it had all been just bad luck. Maybe a bullet in the brain would, in fact, end it all.

"You're the only one... who made it?"  
None were supposed to have. Group one was the decoy. None were supposed to...

After a moment of thinking, Castiel nodded uncertainly. His eyes swept across the yard again, staying upon the vines climbing up the white wall of the house there.  
"Nearly," he said and a hint of a smile appeared on his colourless lips.  
... did no part of the plan work as intended? 

Pain flooded into the pit of Dean's stomach when he forced himself up from the lying position. He leaned onto the wet, slippery green grass below and panted, unable to decide how to relieve the pain that simply holding his head up caused him. He gagged, but doing so released a paralyzing wave of pain that somehow countered the reflex, leaving him feeling dizzy and confused and entirely out of any sensible thought for a while.  
Then he raised his eyes, his vision still misty.

Castiel had pressed a hand against the left side of his abdomen, his fingers bloody. As Dean kept looking, he could see fresh blood pumping out from under the pale hand. Slowly he looked up at the angel.

"We need to find shelter," he breathed out.  
The only thing he could think of was that despite everything he'd done, Castiel had still come to him like this - he had come to Dean to die by his side.  
The angel nodded with a pained sigh.  
"Indeed, but I'm afraid I can't walk any more than you can. So we just... have to stay here."

"No," Dean hissed, "No. I'll help you. I - I'm just..."  
  
"Yes, you just nearly broke your neck. You can probably walk just fine with that injury. Hush, Dean. It's alright, I'm ready."   
The younger gagged again, raising a hand over his collarbones and gripping his shirt, eyes tightly shut until he could breathe again.  
"I'm not," he said, his voice weak and wavering, "Not anymore. You'd leave me stuck here, alone? You'd be more of an asshole than I ever thought if you'd... do that."

 

 

*

The way back to their car was still suspiciously quiet. Dean hoped it wasn't because they were supposed to have survived but rather because nobody could possibly think they had, and because the pack had moved elsewhere. The amount of pain his body registered seemed to dull with each step he took, but the nausea he felt was increasing at the same pace, undoing what little relief he gained from the pain settling to bearable proportions. Castiel had fastened his arm around Dean's back - it bent inconveniently under his arms rather than around his shoulders, but even thinking of applying any weight on that area of his body made Dean's body react in fullblown flight or fight, so he was more than just grateful for the older's choice.  
The longer they walked, the more the angel was stumbling. His ripped jeans were stained with blood and dirt and his shirt's lower part was entirely drenched dark red, but the sight of all that blood made Dean feel less hopeless than he'd been earlier. The bloodloss was bad, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. They'd treated worse wounds before. The bullet also hadn't penetrated any vital organ, as Castiel would have been long gone from a shot like that. He'd survived for hours and he could still stumble on somehow. He would live, if only Dean could drive them back to the base or they could find somewhere to settle for long enough to get him patched and allow him some time to recover.  
That part of his plan still lacked. He could hardly trust his body to know how to walk - a drive all the way back to the base was another thing entirely, and that wasn't even touching the whole part where he would need to pull out the bullet and sew the wound shut after surviving the first feat. He could have driven a part of the way and then rested at some safe spot until he would feel better, but not with Cas bleeding. The angel didn't have time to spare, which meant that neither had Dean.  
  
When they finally did reach the car, Castiel crashed on the backseat with a growl and a hand gripping at the seat's back, but his fingers soon lost their grip and the hand fell back on his lap, limp and white.  
Dean cast a desperate look at him. Seeing the man in whole like that had given him enough information to make a decision, and he'd picked the only option they had.  
  
”You know,” he mumbled, his aching muscles unwilling to reach for the first aid kit under the seat, ”The doppelgänger? I don't know what happened to him – or Lucifer, for that matter – but we sure could use him right now.”  
As he pulled the kit on, he tasted the words he'd just spoken and grimaced.  
"I mean the clone, not Lucifer. But you knew that."

Castiel had closed his eyes. The smile on his face was bitter and hopeless.  
”I liked the doppelgänger,” he said.

Dean pulled open the kit and used Castiel's chest as the surface to lay everything he needed. The angel didn't complain. He hardly looked conscious anymore.  
”I know you did,” the younger spoke reluctantly, pulling Castiel's hand off of the wound.  
Then he unbuttoned as much of his shirt as he had to and pulled it up and aside so that the hole in his side was clearly visible.  
”I didn't. If he went back to his time, he's going to fuck up, and another you and another me will end up in this clusterfuck, or then we're going to end up in this clusterfuck. How does the time thing work, anyway? Am I him, or is he some other me?”

The corner of Castiel's mouth twitched as Dean poured alcohol on the wound and pressed gauze against the opening. He cleaned the area as well as he could, feeling the older's muscles spasm nearly every time he applied any pressure on the spot. He could almost feel the pain he caused in his own body, but he had to ignore it on both of them. Castiel was now literally everything he had. He wouldn't let him go, not like this, not if he could keep him alive.  
When he lifted the drenched gauze off, his eyes caught a glimpse of the bullet. As his mind worked the facts (it wasn't deep, the wound wasn't fatal, he could reach up to it with no problems, the bleeding had to be stopped somehow because it clearly wasn't going to stop on its own and that would be fatal in less than two more hours), he suddenly realised that the last time he'd seen a Croatoan use a gun was way back when all the guns weren't either broken or empty, and their minds weren't all empty yet either. The virus had changed since.  
”Was it a demon or a croat?” he asked quietly, dipping the pinchers in the alcohol and setting the whole tip on fire with his battered lighter, but he got no answer.

The blackened metal was still hot when he reached for the bullet, but not hot enough to get caught in the flesh, and from what he could see, it made no difference to Castiel. The angel's body was stiff and his breathing halted, and the tension from it lifted the very moment Dean wrestled the bullet free. A leak of fresh, warm blood followed it, and he discarded the pinchers and the bullet to quickly grab more gauze.  
Three heavy, quick knocks on the window made him jump and Castiel let out a weak gasp as the rough material pushed against the wound.  
”Holy crap,” Dean breathed out, jumping at the sound and grabbing the angel's hand and pressing it onto the wound at the very same time. The worn frustration came right after the shock had lost its edge. ”Holy sweet cheese on a...”

His eyes barely registered the genuine smirk that spread on Castiel's features. Instead, he turned around in a flash to see how many of them were outside – and what he saw through the darkened window made no sense, but when it slowly sunk into his mind, he could have let out a shriek of joy.  
”Cas, it's – Chuck – did the second team...? Why the hell would he be here, he's supposed to be _half the city_ away from our location?”

Castiel let out a sound that Dean didn't know to interpret.  
The prophet behind the door made a face at Dean, whom he couldn't really be seeing through the window's wrong side, then glanced behind him and knocked again. Dean drew breath and climbed over the seat to the front of the car, letting the man in from there, because there was no space whatsoever in the back left for another person to occupy. Before Chuck could enter, however, he drew a gun on him from the locker on the dashboard and stared right into his eyes.  
”Are you infected?” he asked slowly and clearly.

Chuck blinked.  
”No – what? No, I am not - Dean, let me in, or I _will_ be soon enough.”

Castiel groaned on the backseat.  
”Stay put!” Dean spat back at him.

”It's good to hear your voice, Chuck,” Castiel said, his pronounciation nearly undecipherable, like his lips hadn't moved at all as he spoke and even his tongue was partially tied.

Dean swallowed. He pushed the gun down his belt and climbed across the seats again. Castiel's hold on the gauze had loosened just enough for the blood to almost pump freely out again, and as Dean laid his hand on it, his already bloodied hands felt another trickle of warm, thick liquid run down his wrist and then his arm until his wet shirt swallowed the flow. He heard the front door of the car slam closed behind Chuck.  
”Um, Dean?” the man called. 

”Yes?” Dean growled back, burning a blackened knitting needle until its tip was glowing red.  
The contents of first aid kits had drastically changed since the days they'd been sold at every mall - the ones he was now used to using were full of ordinary items recycled for new purposes just like this one was. With the apocalypse shutting down shops, knitting needles had turned much more useful than they'd ever been to Dean in his whole life up until then.

”I can – I can drive, when we're ready,” Chuck suggested in a voice that implied he was expecting to be stabbed with the needle as a response.  
Dean didn't even cast a look back at him. Instead, he brought the needle up to the spot on the wound's inner side that bled the most and pushed it against the flesh without giving Castiel the time to realise what would happen. The angel let out a pained sound and apparently tried to pull up his leg, failing that miserably as his knee barely bent at all.  
The bloodflow died down a little. Dean pulled the needle out and swallowed a gag he felt was coming as the smell of burning flesh entered his nostrils.  
”Oh God,” he heard Chuck muttering from the front seat, ”Oh God, oh God.”

”How did you survive?” he asked him sharply, turning to the few remaining stitches in the kit.

There were five left. The base had more, but stitches were definitely amongst the things they were running low on permanently. He wasn't given a choice however, having no other means of closing the wound. Glue could have sufficed for this, but he'd rather have closed it traditionally – for obvious reasons, he had no traditional means available. Castiel's car wasn't an ambulance. It was mostly stacked with weed and weaponry and condoms.

”I, umm,” Chuck muttered, sounding nauseous, ”I... we caught distress signal, and I followed it, and I - I...”

”He hid,” Castiel helped.  
Dean looked at him for a moment, trying to decide whether he was conscious or not. 

”No, I didn't!” Chuck replied terrifiedly, ”I was fighting! And I - I think I killed two - I _think_ \- but then... the corridor collapsed. So I was stuck there. That's not hiding. I climbed out of the window, for heaven's sake. It was the third story and I was certain I'd fall and die, but I didn't, and then I saw you two, and I just ran. I ran until I was here. We should really, really, really move on though.”

”Agreed,” Dean muttered, pushing the second stitch through the angel's skin.  
On the third, he straightened his back and stretched his neck, which was a gigantic mistake that nearly made him faint. When his vision cleared again and he could trust his throat not to fail him, he spoke again.  
”You can drive. Just do it carefully, I still need to make sure no dirt gets into this wound. There's no way Cas can survive an infection on top of this.”

 

 

*

The rain was still going strong after sunset, and the road they drove on was slippery on top of being in a godawful condition with cracks, bumps and sudden holes throughout the asphalt. Everything considered, they were travelling slow enough.  
”How's the gas looking?” Dean asked.  
He sat on the backseat, aware of time passing merely because his neck was slowly swelling and turning less and less mobile. Castiel was asleep, as keeping him awake had proven impossible. His head was positioned on Dean's thigh and as long as he was breathing, Dean tried not to worry about waking him up. The angel was strong. He'd pull through somehow.  
He had to. 

Chuck checked the meters and let out a thoughtful sound.  
”We'll make it,” he replied, ”Over half the tank left. Castiel has to be the only one of us who actually tanked for the return trip as well.”  
He chuckled absently and tried once more to get the malfunctioning windshield wipers to sweep across the glass in a rythm rather than the jerky, unpredictable movement they'd once more adopted. Dean remembered fixing the same problem twice to the date. He was starting to lose hope with it, and right now was perhaps the worst timing for the issue to make a comeback.

”Guess he's learned something,” Dean muttered and tried to lean his upper back to the seat but finding it too stiff to bend, adding bitterly, ”I'm going to be useless for the next week.”   
Chuck glanced at him through the mirror and his expression turned concerned.  
  
”What happened to you?” 

Dean swallowed and his heart raced in his chest when his brain registered that he had just started having difficulties performing that simple motion with his swelling throat.  
”The devil happened to me. The son of a bitch stepped on me, literally.”

”Wow,” Chuck muttered, slowing down for a risen crack on the road and speeding up again after, ”Did he – you know – snap it?”

Dean grimaced.  
”I'd be dead or paralyzed if he had,” he pointed out in a worn voice, ”I don't think he ever meant to do that. I'm too much fun to fuck around with. No, I think he just wanted me out so I wouldn't interfere with his conversation with my naive past self. And to show me how insignificant I am. That he doesn't give a crap about me anymore.”

Saying it aloud hurt. It seemed to make the loss they'd suffered more real and more final. This had been it, the last chance. They had – no, he had failed it, and now there was nothing left to do. He'd once joked that should they fail to ice the devil, they'd simply have to breed like rabbits and repopulate the Earth, and his thoughts returned to that with warmth. It'd be difficult with just three dudes left, however. He wouldn't even manage a boner around them. He hoped the base was intact. Castiel's civil harem at least had females in it. Problem was, they hadn't left much anyone to guard, they couldn't have afforded to lose a single capable soldier - or so Dean had wanted the rest to think, as if he'd ever even considered taking them with him. Now, if the girls were still alive, they'd either have to train or they would die.  
Dean looked down at Castiel and wondered how he'd like that plan.

 ”We need to relocate,” he said quietly.

”What?”

Dean raised his head and sought an eye contact with Chuck through the mirror.  
”We need to relocate. As soon as possible. If there's anything left to relocate, anyway.”

There was submissive, hesitant agreement in the other's expression before Chuck turned his eyes away and concentrated on driving.  
The rest of the way, they were both quiet.


	2. Sickbed Insight

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The car rocked as it stopped beside the gates on the muddied road. Its heavy body pushed the wheels deep into the ruined ground and as Chuck stepped out to wrestle the gate open, his steps made wet sounds that were easy to hear even to the backseat. Even if they'd all be in top condition, the weather would have prevented them from relocating anywhere until the ground had dried, but since this was currently the only place within perhaps hundreds of miles that was strategically sound, fortified and defendable, that would need to wait for days, perhaps weeks more until they'd find another location to retreat to.The base looked quiet but unharmed. Dean was glad to know that. The last thing his stiff, swollen and throbbing hot neck needed was another fight.

Chuck climbed back in, smelling of mud and rain. It took a while to get the car unstuck, but finally they entered the fenced area.  
”Wait here, I'll close the gate and then we'll carry him inside,” Chuck mumbled as he stopped the car and jumped out again.

Dean sighed and closed his eyes. He couldn't remember ever feeling as sick as he felt right then, like his skull was made of heated metal and the rest of him was the embodiment of ache and nausea. His vision was swimming as well. He was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to carry anything, much less anything as heavy as Castiel, but of course they couldn't just leave him there either. Grimacing, Dean managed to open the door and slipped out, dropping Castiel off of his lap as gently as he could. The ground was like a swamp, even on the grassy areas, and the rain was only gaining again. This was probably it: the apocalyptic flood, Dean thought as he dragged his useless body across the yard.

”Where are you going?” Chuck called to him through the wind and rain.

Dean would have replied, but it would have required him to actually strain the muscles on his neck, and that was definitely out of question. Instead, he turned his wrist and pointed nonchalantly at Castiel's cabin, hoping to maybe find someone from inside.  
He got on the porch and knocked on the door, thrice, sharply, then opened it. The air was thick with the sweet smoke of weed and incenses. It did a nice job at drowning the smell of sex that inevitably lingered underneath, yet Dean couldn't remember ever actually smelling anything but that smoke inside. Even after a proper airing, the cabin was one of the best smelling of them all. His own smelled of oil, metal, dust and damp wood. If they'd live long enough to recover, he'd start hoarding incenses just to make that difference. Weed, on the other hand, he'd keep passing. The things it did to already annoying people made him no more fond of them, and he sure as hell was someone he wouldn't stand being around while high.  
Or maybe he would, maybe he'd even enjoy it. It really didn't matter anymore. Maybe weed did make things better. The last time he'd tried, it had only made him feel like he'd never slept in his life. Castiel had looked at him pityingly when he'd woken up four hours later, still feeling a little out of it.

The cabin appeared empty as Dean moved into the main room. Then he saw a girl in the corner, the brunette whose name he'd temporarily forgotten, hugging her knees and looking at him with a terrified expression on her face.  
”Is he dead?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Dean couldn't reply. He couldn't say no and he couldn't admit what he'd done. The guilt that had settled to the pit of his stomach like a weight of lead churned and started climbing up his body. He swallowed before it entered his throat and came out in an inconvenient form.  
”Come, we need help with Castiel.”

The woman's eyes widened.  
”Castiel? Is he alright?”

Dean wanted to shrug, but it was impossible to even seriously consider.  
”He got shot,” he said, and again the guilt inside him bubbled and burned his guts, ”He can't get here on his own.”

The woman licked her lips insecurely and nodded.  
”I'll find him some medication, for the pain,” she muttered, ”Cindy will help with moving him.”

Dean noticed the thought of letting the harem care for Castiel was making him angry.  
”Where's Cindy?”

”On her way as soon as I find her.”

”Good. Leave the pills by the bedside table and go help Chuck. I'll take care of Castiel.”

The woman looked at him shockedly.  
”No,” she insisted, ”He'd want -”

”He'd want me to do it, trust me.” 

*

Rain tapped the window as Dean sat by the older's bed. His head was full of dull, hollow noise and his vision seemed to fade in and out from the need to sleep, but he had no idea how exactly would he sleep with his neck being the way it was, so he simply sat there, waiting for Castiel to maybe wake up, or that he'd fall asleep in an upright position himself. His nose had grown used to the heavy scents of the cabin and he wished someone would light a fresh incense stick just to get him something new to smell, anything that'd hold his interest every now and then for a passing moment. It'd make his life easier.  
His thoughts had started to wander back to the days he'd spent with Sam, when in a situation like this he'd be lying on a motel room bed moaning and pissing the hell out of his brother just to feel a little better, or at least he could listen to some sexy tracks from his CD collection. Now he couldn't recall when he'd last seen his music collection and Lucifer was controlling what remained of Sam, as the archangel's presence had probably burned his soul to dust years ago. Even Impala was outside, rusting in the rain.

Dean swallowed thickly.  
What had he become? He'd gotten everyone killed for nothing. Everyone. From Sam on, things had gone straight to hell.  
Something inside his head screamed for him to stop; this wasn't the time to be desperate. He closed his eyes and asked himself that if this wasn't it, then when would the time come? In the silence that followed, he heard Castiel moving.  
The angel's fingers gripped the red blanket beneath him and he made a small sound as Dean looked at him. He opened his eyes with great effort and looked around until he located the younger. Then his gaze stopped and they watched each other for a long time. Finally, the angel smiled a little and closed his eyes again.  
”Home sweet home,” he muttered, ”Which means that I am not dead yet.”

”Not quite,” Dean replied.

”Not quite? And still, you're here. That's what made me doubt for a moment. Why aren't you elsewhere, sleeping off that headache of yours? My girls would be more than glad to sit by my bed." 

”No. Shut up.”  
That was the best answer Dean managed. His throat was closing in on him and it had nothing to do with his injuries.

”You wish,” Castiel mumbled.  
Dean looked at him and noticed the dark rings around his eyes had grown even darker. He creased his brows and laid a hand on the angel's forehead. It was cool and covered in cold sweat. The skin on him was paper white, especially in contrast to the red of the blanket underneath.

”How do you feel?” the younger asked roughly, his voice resembling the sound a stone made when thrown against a larger rock.

”Like hell.”  
A resigned smile appeared and disappeared from Castiel's features. His voice was like sandpaper.

Dean patted the bed beside him and took the risk, lying down as carefully as he could. He wouldn't go to his own bed tonight. The very thought of moving anywhere made him ache worse. Lying down without moving half his body was a task, but he managed to do it, and to avoid the bump the pillows made on the bed he landed lower on the bed so that his face was on level with Castiel's chest.  
His field of vision was limited to the ceiling, some part of Castiel he couldn't really say which, and a hint of the wall on his right side.

”Is it flooding yet?” the angel asked weakly but with a hint of a joke in his tone. 

”Not when I last looked, but coming close.” 

”Good we have a boat...”

Dean couldn't help smirking. He groped the bed underneath them and decided it wouldn't do them much good.  
”I think it'll sink.”

Castiel huffed.  
They breathed in opposite rythms, each time Dean drew breath, Castiel breathed out. It made Dean feel breathless, like the sounds were confusing his body on whether or not he ever got air into his lungs for real. Slowly, the older male pulled himself into a more upright position and reached for the pills on the table. He downed them with three glasses of water and great difficulty at balancing himself on one hand and no abdominal muscles, and when he lied back down, he was breathing heavier like after performing a much harder physical task. The bloodloss had taken its toll on him.  
”You should sleep,” Dean muttered.  
He was currently attempting to follow his own advice, what with his eyes closed and concentration mainly on the sound of rain against the window.

”I wouldn't worry about that,” Castiel returned softly, ”These babies could knock out a man thrice my size...”  
He breathed in and when the air came back out, the flow of it wavered.  
”I'll miss this place.”

Dean swallowed thickly. The ache in the back of his neck was releasing exploding stars into his vision. He'd skipped his own painkillers, knowing it was a stupid thing to do in terms of his own comfort, but if they'd end up under attack, he'd rather die useful than high. He also knew what Castiel's choice was. If Castiel could choose how he'd die, he'd take every pill and injection he could get his hands on, and then lie back to enjoy the show.  
”We'll see about that when moving is a realistic thought,” he mumbled.  
”If we can reinforce a smaller area, we can as well stay for a little longer. If not, we'll find you another new age hellhole and you'll be just as well off.” 

Castiel's breathing was changing slowly, turning slower and deeper.  
”New age hellhole? That's what you call my place?”  
He laughed exhaustedly.  
”I guess that's pretty accurate.”

Dean listened to him fall back asleep. A hollow sadness settled in the pit of his stomach and he wished he'd have ice to press against his neck. Their only working freezer was three cabins away, so dreaming of a bag of ice was about as close as he would get until someone felt like checking up on them. He drifted into a restless sleep with that in mind, constantly waiting for an attack that never came.

*

The rain had calmed down by the morning. Dean recalled last hearing it before sunrise, although he'd slept awfully. Around dawnbreak, Chuck had arrived like a guardian angel, carrying ice and some soup for them in case they'd feel like getting up and eating, which they didn't. He'd announced he'd be back in a couple hours but that there was a lot to do – Dean suspected most of it involved naked girls, but he didn't press the matter. It wasn't important, not really. They were all dead anyway, so trying to pretend otherwise was a fool's effort, they might as well try to enjoy their time before it was over.  
He'd skinned a pillow and wore the pillowcase doubled over the ice to avoid a frostbite. Then he'd simply lied on top of the cool bump and inhabited the peaceful border of sleep and waking world, occasional chains of conscious thought mixing with the signals of his subconscious. The cold did miracles for his swollen neck and little by little, his nausea died down and the throbbing headache lessened to a constant, sharper ache he could deal with better. The damaged part of his neck was touch sensitive and any accidental movement of his neck caused him to gag instantly, but with each never-ending second of flashing pain taking over him like a tsunami wave, he learned to remember that he was, in fact, not going anywhere yet.

He'd never spent much time in Castiel's cabin. He'd grown used to avoiding the male, mostly because he'd become a pitiful thing with an awful attitude problem, but also because he was the only one who'd never quit judging whatever Dean did. He'd always let him know that he disliked his choices and the manner he lead the resistance, and especially who he had become. At first, he'd questioned. Now he merely looked at him in a way that told Dean he was disappointed in everything Dean was and everything he stood for. Dean wasn't sure why he hadn't planted a bullet in the angel's head yet. Possibly only because he hadn't got the chance to do so, and if he was honest, he'd been glad to send the other to his death. Without his condescending look, he'd be free.  
So why was he there now? Why had he worked so hard to keep Castiel alive? Was it simply the fear of being left alone, a desperate man's desperate effort at clinging to life? It had been a stupid thing to do, or at least it would have been if he'd still been the man he'd been when he'd given the command. Something had changed inside him since then.  
Perhaps he'd been humbled by the final defeat, or perhaps giving up had broken his will, but he needed Castiel now. If he'd gathered a list of priorities, the first three spots would have read as ”Keep Castiel alive”, ”Make sure Castiel survives” and ”Castiel comes first”. Chuck was holding up the honorary fourth place on the list, although it went more along the lines of ”Don't let Chuck get lost”, or ”Make sure Chuck doesn't catch HIV”.  
The thought made Dean smirk. He was a goner. Being a goner felt good. Almost like when things had been better, he'd somehow remembered how irony worked. He dwelled on that thought for a moment. It definitely did make him feel better. 

Castiel made a small sound and adjusted himself next to Dean, rubbed his head against the pillow and opened his eyes. He blinked a few times to adjust his eyes to the bright light pouring in from between the curtains before he seemed to notice Dean. He turned his face towards him and looked at him with mild astonishment in his expression. Then he smiled, and his blue eyes sparked into life.  
”Good morning,” he whispered. 

Dean was about to nod but managed to stop himself before the command reached his muscles, and silently, instinctively, he thanked God for that. The thought made him grimace.  
”If you have appetite, there's food on the table.” 

Castiel glanced at the bowl and let out a pleased ”Aah”. He struggled to get up but once he was leaning against the bed's head, he reached for the soup and started eating like he hadn't seen food in a full month. Dean watched him from the corner of his eyes, wondering what appetite felt like. Probably fine when your body was trying to produce a large amount of blood to make up for what had been lost, and there was everything it needed within an arm's reach. He himself lacked any sign of appetite, so he didn't complain when Castiel poured more into his cup, even if it meant he'd probably be left with barely half a cup for himself. Castiel gave him a questioning look and again, Dean nearly shook his head before he remembered it was a very, very bad idea, and simply said no instead. The angel smiled for a brief moment before digging in again. 

”I was surprised,” Castiel said after a long silence, ”that you cared, yesterday.” 

Dean looked at him, trying not to move his head. He reached clumsily for the slowly melting ice pillow under his neck and moved it up as gently as he could, letting out a pained sigh when his brain registered the movement as intense pain. Then he considered replying, but found that he didn't know what to say to that. Should he be uncaring, say of course he'd care? That'd be entirely pointless, as Castiel was well aware that it was far from an obvious thing. That he was surprised as well? He didn't say anything. 

Castiel didn't seem to have been expecting anything, either.  
”Of course, it was a bit late, considering you murdered the rest of your friends. That was a new low for you, Dean. I don't know how Chuck survived, either, seeing as the room he was in collapsed. I was right next to it, I should know. And whatever became of his team - we'll probably never know.” 

Dean looked at him, cheeks hot and a burn inside his chest. Had he been in full strength, he'd punched Castiel, no matter how much blood he'd lost he could spare a mouthful more. Castiel replied his eye contact calmly, an annoying sort of a smile on his face, the know-all one he wore when he despised Dean the most and wanted him to know.  
”What's your point?” Dean asked. 

”My point?”  
Castiel pretended to think for a moment, his eyes scanning the ceiling and the smile widening upon his lips.  
”My point,” he finally said, cheerful as ever, ”is that just when I thought I'd lost you forever, you start showing signs of maybe still having a conscience inside that dead shell you're wearing for comfort. Yet, it's much too late now, Dean. You only served yourself when you saved my life, and for that, I'd hate you if I could.” 

”Well, you're welcome.”  
  
”Do you think I wanted to live, Dean? Why, for one moment, would you think that you served me when you patched my wound? You should have let me die. Have I not suffered enough already? There's nothing left of me. There's nothing left of you either. The kindest thing you could do would be putting a bullet through both our heads to get it done and over with.”  
Dean rose up, despite the pain he felt. Castiel put down his empty cup and looked at him calmly. Dean wasn't sure what he wanted to do now. He couldn't even lift his hand to the blow he wanted to deal, and his vision was swimming from the pain just getting up had caused. He breathed heavily and stared at Castiel, waiting for a sudden strike of inspiration to tell him how to tear the angel a new one, and where.  
The older raised his hand and brushed his cheek with it, stunning Dean completely on spot. Castiel sighed and turned his eyes to the room in front of them, seeing something entirely different than what was physically there.  
Dean's mind drifted as well. He gave up on his wish to hurt Castiel and instead, he crawled back against the bed's end and tried to find a comfortable position.  
”Cas?” 

”Yes, Dean?”

Dean picked up the bag of ice and handed it to Castiel.  
”Can you put that under my neck? I can't lift my arms.” 

”Of course.” 

The angel pushed his fingers under Dean's head ever so gently, lifting it from the wall just enough to make room for the bag, which he then slipped into the space he'd made between the bottom of Dean's skull and the top of his shoulders. The return of the cold against the swollen, bruised and immobile neck made Dean let out a relieved breath.  
Castiel examined him quietly for a moment.  
”You have the greenest eyes,” he came to a conclusion. 

”Yeah? They haven't changed, you know. Been the same colour since the day we met.”

The angel nodded.  
”Funny, that,” he thought aloud.


	3. Hopes and Regrets

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ 

Chuck leaned his forehead to the table. There were hands upon his shoulders massaging his rockslide-tender muscles, and a girl between his legs, and he had nothing to complain about. Time was ticking, someone in this hole still had owned a working clock. He didn't need one to know the seconds, but of course, it was pleasant to have inherited a luxury like that.  
”Thanks for the clock and, oh, peace to your soul...”  
”What did you say, Chuck?”  
”Nothing, sweetie. Nothing. Ahh... a little to the left, could you, please?”  
His fingers bent into the girl's soft hair and he swallowed thickly through the pleasure. It was still too soon for the upcoming plot twist, but damn if he wasn't starting to get excited.

 

*

By the sunset, Dean was starting to feel less like death. He also longed for fresh air, and finally he grew too anxious to just sit inside and listen to Castiel breathing. The angel had fallen back asleep soon after they'd stopped talking, and Dean wasn't going to wake him up. He was still extremely weak and rest was vital for his survival. On top of that, his body temperature had risen over normal – only by a little, but Dean feared it would get worse from there. Nothing was certain about his condition yet. There was a small but significantly larger than normal chance of him dying during the next three days. The longer he'd spent in Castiel's bed, the worse he felt about everything he'd done so far. He had to get out.

So, he struggled up from the bed and then across the cabin. He'd grab something to eat and drink and settle somewhere he felt even remotely at peace. That was a good plan. It'd also take forever to execute. He closed the cabin's door behind his back and stood on the porch, watching the sunset colour everything the shade of a wildfire and listening to the wind bells chiming in the gentle wind. For the first time in a long time, he stopped to just smell the air, the bitter scent of grass and the fine, dusty smell of the sun-dried hay, all toned and reshaped by the memory of rain. The mud, the puddles of dirty water, the paint on the cabin's walls, everything mixed together and lingered by his nose. He breathed the world in and wondered what was he letting out when his lungs pushed the used air back out. What was his scent?

He took steps down the porch and his feet landed on the moist ground. It wasn't wet anymore and his shoes didn't sink into it, but it was still dark and smelled of wet soil. Step by step he walked on, forgetting about his plans for food. His feet took him past the yard to the tall hay where Impala was, rusty and sad-looking, wheels empty and deep in the muddy ground. He ran his hand across its cold roof and smiled sadly.  
”Baby... what have I done to you?”

He leaned his hands onto the car and peeked inside, his thoughts now on his younger self who had stood there, shocked at what he saw. That young, naive idiot. What would he do with his life? Had he learned anything? What did Dean even have to teach, that he'd become a ruin, abandon all his morals and find pleasure only in torture like he had when he'd been in hell? That his hell would become this place with nowhere to run?

Dean slipped inside and sat on the rugged seat. He laid his fingers on the wheel and looked up through the dirty windshield, and he didn't see the grass or the fence, he saw a road. An asphalt road like they'd been before humanity was swept from the face of the Earth, when it continued all the way up to the horizon, painted red by the setting sun; no cracks on its surface, with well-kept fields on both sides. He'd driven through so many roads like that, alone and with Sam on his side, and with John as well. His life had been that, and even when he'd thought he hated it, he longed for nothing more than that one day, he could still wake up in that life. Now he'd know to appreciate it. He'd had it so easy, he'd held the whole world in his hands, all opportunities open. How blind had he been to think that was the worst life he could lead.

He turned and with his eyes sought out the little green toy soldier Sam had left behind. Seeing it made him hurt physically. He pulled his knees against his chest, kicked off his shoes and pulled his feet on the leather seat and covered his face.  
Outside, birds were singing and the branches of the trees surrounding the base moved in the gentle breeze passing through. The sound of the forest moving around came in through the doorless frames of the car and reminded him endlessly of the situation he'd gotten himself into.

If he'd given himself up to Michael, what would the world look like?  
He had difficulty breathing through his tears. Perhaps all these years were finally breaking through like this. He couldn't recall the last time he'd cried, it had had to have been forever ago, years even. Somehow, this place out of them all was the one he felt he could still be the man he'd been a long time ago. Perhaps that was why he'd buried the car this deep. It was like Castiel, it got in his way. It reminded him of who he truly was. No matter how far he'd ran, he had come back here, and now he had to face the fact; he was that naive idiot, the exact same man as he'd been back then, and all the horrible things he'd done were the concrete Castiel had spoken of.  
To forget himself, he'd killed, tortured, betrayed. It wasn't worth it.

Little by little, the dusk outside turned to dark. Blue shadows crept across the swamped ground and the grass and the birds stopped singing. Stars shone above, white dust spread across the deep blue skies. Dean pushed his feet back out of the car and made a decision. He'd start the first thing in morning.

 

*

The wooden door opened with a creak and closed with a soft thud. Dean left his shoes by the door and stepped inside the candle lit cabin. The first person he saw was Chuck, sitting on the bed, then Castiel sitting behind him and leaning to the wall, looking pale and sickly.  
”We thought you drowned yourself in the swamp,” Chuck greeted him.  
Dean motioned unclearly.  
”Good news, Dean,” Castiel said and his voice was dripping sarcasm, ”You didn't manage to fuck up _everything_.”

Chuck hissed at him and he returned to staring at his knees instead. Dean walked closer, smelling fresh air lingering about himself as the incense-scented thick air rubbed against his body and chased the memory of the evening off of him.  
”What he's trying to say is,” Chuck began again, ”that we have four able-bodied men and five able-bodied women to defend the base, food to last at least until winter, and fuel for the generators to run for the foreseeable future.”

”Who's the man I haven't seen yet?”

”I wasn't counting you two as able-bodied, Dean. You're injured. We have, well, me, then there's Thomas, Jack and Adam.”  
  
”Oh, great,” Dean muttered, but the spark of hope he'd learned to hate had popped up inside him again, and he couldn't deny it.

”Then we have Cas's girls, of course. They have great, fit bodies, so that's something. Cindy is amazing at trapping animals, Eleonora can't do anything as of yet but we'll figure something out, Beatrice's great with crossbows and shotguns and -”  
  
”Wait, what? Beatrice can shoot?” Dean interrupted, taken by surprise.

Castiel laughed.  
”Oh, if you'd only know, Dean – she can hit the carpet from my bed, trying hard enough.”

Dean stared.  
”Jesus, Cas, way too much information. Really, though?”

”Yes,” both Chuck and Castiel replied at the same time.  
Dean found himself grinning and momentarily entertained by the thought. Then he returned to the business at hand and aimed a look at Chuck.  
”So, the rest?”

”Vera is handy with blades and Lotus can technically do jujutsu.”  
  
”Technically?”  
Dean sat down on the bed and reached for the container holding a fresh bit of ice for him. Apparently they'd decided he was staying here in Castiel's cabin. Or he had decided he'd stay there, and they'd actually taken him seriously. The thought felt scary tonight after everything he'd thought while staying outside.  
He skinned the pillow again, wrapped the removed cloth around the ice and pressed it against his neck, watching Chuck exchange looks with Castiel.

Castiel nodded.  
”She's a yellow belt.”

”Wow, that's not very good, is it?” Dean grunted, not managing actual feelings behind his words due to the amazing relief the ice was bringing him at the moment.

”Well, it's better than nothing,” Chuck noted.  
”She did it when she was 12,” Castiel countered.  
”Well, that...” Chuck continued, falling silent.

Dean sighed.  
”We don't stand a snowball's chance, it wouldn't matter if she was a black belt unless she also happened to be the dragon warrior. Just tell her to remember and re-master as much as she can, we can't defend this mausoleum with yoga.”

Castiel licked his lips and slid down on the bed. After a moment of silence, he landed fully on his back and let out a deep sigh. Within thirty seconds, he'd one-handedly dug out a pack of red incense sticks from the nearby table's box, pushed the thick end of one of them into a candle's flame and somehow managed to position it correctly into the holder. Dean yawned. Yawning hurt his neck.

”I'm having an early morning tomorrow, so either all these lights go out now and Chuck gets the hell out of here, or I'm sleeping elsewhere.”

”Sleep here,” Castiel pleaded.  
He crossed his hands on top of his stomach and breathed in the scented smoke from the incense stick.  
”Chuck can blow all the candles for us.”

Chuck gave the angel a stare, then sighed defeatedly and rose up. Dean took his place on the bed and settled on his back, pulling up the blanket that had fallen on the floor next to the bed when he'd left the cabin hours earlier.

One by one, the lights went out.  
”I'll come check on you in the morning,” Chuck announced from the door.

”Come by around sunrise,” Dean shouted after him, hearing a distant 'fine' as a reply before the door closed, leaving them in full darkness.

In five minutes, Dean noticed he was still awake, and not only that, his eyes were also wide open. The thing that made him aware of this was the moment the burned incense fell off of the stick's head, revealing a hot red, glowing fresh tip from beneath. He turned his eyes towards that and moved the ice on his neck, realising that if he would have fallen asleep like that, he would have gained a frostbite out of it. He huffed.  
Castiel shifted next to him, letting out a silent sound of pain. The sound awoke Dean to the fact that he was burning hot next to him, even past the twelve inch distance and two blankets between them. He tried to close that fact out of his mind, but in twenty more minutes, he was only more and more awake thinking and worrying. Before he could really think it through, he was up and moving across the space to where he recalled seeing a box of matches. He picked out one, lit it, brought it to a candle and then another before blowing the fire out.  
Castiel's eyes reflected the fire when he looked at him, and they shared a glance, Castiel asking him why he was up and Dean replying with determinated lack of visible emotion. He left the room, heading for the kitchen. The water container on the floor had been refilled earlier, but the water was from the well and therefore unclean for his purposes. He filled a battered kettle, took note that the stove was out of gas, and walked straight out of the cabin after just having stacked up on matches first.

The night was silent like an undisturbed grave, with only wind passing through the open space as he made his way to his own cabin. There was a fireplace in there, and a fireplace he needed.  
Inside the cabin, the air was cold and still and smelled of dust and wet wood. He occupied a mess, unlike Castiel whose lair was always clean and in order. He placed the kettle on the table with a huff without bothering to clear the plans and notes and blank papers and scattered pens from the way first. He picked some firewood from the basket by the fireplace and shoved them in, creating a cave in the middle. In a careless pull, he dragged some of the plans from under the kettle and fit them inside the cave, lit them up and watched the pile slowly catch fire. Then he hung the kettle above the fire and sat down to wait.  
He kept swallowing something that felt like his own throat trying to rub against the back of his mouth, and he was quite sure it was the feelings from earlier that he'd now trapped again somewhere inside himself trying to escape or take control again. He refused them the chance.

The fire cracked in the pit and the flames occasionally reached up to the blackened bottom of the kettle. The water was still, but it'd boil soon enough. Dean's toes curled inside his shoes. When he noticed that, he noticed that he was also gripping the hem of his shirt obsessively, and stopped doing both. In fifteen seconds, both had began again, so he stood up and started walking around the cabin instead, casting desperate looks at things he'd piled against the walls and on the floor and tables and even chairs. He picked up a couple shirts, a pair of ragged jeans and a pair of boxers from around the room, laid them on the table, picked a handgun from the rack and wrapped it inside the clothes, passively wondering where the Colt had gone and whether or not he'd be happier with it still around.

The water was boiling.

 

*

Castiel tried to get up, but Dean raised a finger at him.  
”Just stay still,” he told the older, and with a sigh, Castiel relaxed again.

Dean laid the kettle on the floor in the nest that was formed by the cloth he'd wrapped around the scorching hot metal to protect his hands. He settled next to it on his knees and leaned onto the bed with one elbow while he reached with his other hand to first tug down the blanket from around Castiel, then to pull up his shirt to see the still covered wound. The white bandage on it had some bloodstains on it, but none of them were fresh, so his stitches had at least held the wound closed. Confidently, he removed the layers to find the wound.  
”Cas?”

The angel made a sound to signal he was listening.  
”Hold a candle for me.”

”Literally?”

”No, figuratively. Just _do_ it.”

Castiel smirked, but the essence of his mockery was lacking. He was too sick for that, but at least he could hold the candle well enough. Dean guided his hand close to the wound, planted the bottom of the candle on the bed and adjusted Castiel's hand on it so that it was straight and Castiel could still relax his arm – that way, the running wax wouldn't get out from the candle's center to burn his hands, and even if he fell asleep, the odds were that the candle would stay in the position.  
The area was swollen, hot and red and the broken, thickened skin shone in a sickly manner. It wasn't infected yet, but the keyword was 'yet', and their stocks of medication had always been running low. Dean wasn't sure if he could find anything for an infected wound that wouldn't potentially make the situation worse.  
Grimly, he dipped the clean towel into the boiled water and let it cool down before patting the wound with it. Castiel breathed in sharply and his fingers wound up tighter around the candle.

Dean wanted to say something, but he didn't have much to say. He considered saying something general, something just to open up a conversation, but this was Castiel. No matter how low he'd sunken, he was still an angel deep inside, and he had no desire to chitchat with Dean, so Dean didn't even try.  
Then, a thought hit him.  
”About all that doppelgänger, Parent Trap crap that happened,” he spoke, pressing the cloth against the wound again and this time letting it stay there for a while before pulling it back and soaking it in the kettle, ”Do you think he – that I changed my mind?”

Castiel smiled, his eyes closed and fingers still holding the candle too tightly.  
”No,” he said, ”I know you, Dean. Zachariah's tricks wouldn't change your mind. But I hope you learned something.”

Dean pursed his lips and continued cleaning the wound. He wasn't sure what he was removing and what he was doing probably irritated the stitches, but he couldn't just sit by and watch while Castiel got sicker and sicker, he had to even think he was helping. Sam had always been better at this. Dean's idea of health care was to patch it up once and hope for the best. They'd lost their medic on the last suicide mission, so he had nobody to turn to about this, unless Chuck suddenly revealed a shocking new side about himself, which Dean somehow doubted. The prophet's transformation into a proper manager of resources had in itself been a miracle, and he knew that miracles were often limited to less than one per person.

”And Dean...”

Dean raised his eyes to glance at Castiel.  
”Yeah?”

The angel smiled and the candle's flame trembled a little.  
”I admit that more than I ever cared about the younger you's lesson, I was hoping for the current you to learn something instead.”

Dean's mouth felt dry. He poured some water on the wound, took the second clean towel and dried the area again with it. At least the flesh didn't reflect light anymore, and that had to be a good sign.  
”Where do you keep the first aid supplies?”

”On the top of the shelf in the main room, there's... a black box.”  
Dean nodded and got on his feet. He sought out the box and returned with it, digging out fresh bandages and tape to stick them in place. Castiel stayed quiet while he treated the wound, and when Dean packed the remaining things, he was fairly certain the angel was asleep. He returned the kettle to the kitchenette, but the first aid kit he placed under the bed in case they'd need it again. When he tried to wrestle the candle free of the older's grip, Castiel opened his eyes again and looked at Dean. Slowly, he let go of the candle.

”Aren't you going to ask me what I wanted you to learn?” he asked.

Dean shook his head and put the candle back on the plate it had stood on before. Some hot wax dripped onto his hand when the candle landed on the silver surface.

”Pity,” Castiel said, closing his eyes again, ”I was dying to tell you.”  
A weak smile passed Dean's lips.  
”Too bad,” he said and blew out the candle, ”I'm done with taking angel lessons.”

”Duly noted.”


	4. Deus ex Machina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not exactly Friday, but I don't think anyone will notice. Have a short chapter.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ 

Dean woke up to the sound of the creaky door opening. He heard the wind, still rustling the countless leaves and branches and bending the grass and hay outside, and the chiming of the bells before the door closed a mere moment later, and Chuck knocked the soles of his shoes against the floor before kicking them off.  
”Morning, you two,” he greeted them cheerfully, moving across the cabin to the bedroom.

When Dean rose up, eyes glued shut and trying to wrestle them open, he noticed he was only in pain now, while his shoulders almost worked normally and his neck actually moved some, even if that ”some” wasn't nearly as much as it normally did. It was still an improvement.  
”What time is it?” he asked.  
He would have bet he'd only slept a moment, but the room had that dim light of dawn that told him otherwise.  
Chuck handed him a bowl of soup, the same as the day before, and looked at him happily.  
”Five in the morning, as you requested. I'm going right to bed when I get out of here, it's been a loooong night.”

”A 'loooong night', Chuck? What are you doing? Still having orgies?” Dean asked, almost missing his mouth with the spoonful of soup he was aiming at it.  
Chuck moved around the bed and kneeled in front of Castiel. The angel's eyes were open and he watched Chuck move, but that was about as much of a reaction they'd gotten out of him. Then he yawned, closed his eyes again and muttered something.  
”No, you really need to eat, Cas,” Chuck sighed, ”Let me help you up. And no, not orgies, I'm doing what you can't. We've managed a defense with hours for all who can take them, two to four hours per soul, throughout the day. During daylight, I thought it'd be best if we put some effort into guarding past the fence, not far past but along the road, just in case. If someone comes, they either die or we get a signal before it's too late.”

Dean swallowed the third spoonful and made a sound. Then he nodded, hated himself for nodding due to the pain immediately after, and realised that Chuck was actually playing the game like it was still on and that he respected the man for his persistence.  
With Chuck's help, Castiel managed a sitting position. He grabbed the bowl of soup and nodded in thanks, but it was clear that he didn't have any appetite and that every waking moment was pain for him.

”Cas, dude.” Dean heard himself saying, ”He's right, you've gotta eat.”

Castiel breathed out slowly and brought the spoon up to his lips like it was full of poison. Dean turned his eyes away and concentrated on eating his own soup instead, as if there was a single thing worse than being forced to eat, it was being forced to eat when the whole room was watching you. Chuck's eyes were enough to make sure the soup ended up in the angel's mouth and not somewhere else.

”Why do you always do what Dean says?” Chuck sighed, ”You two don't even get along.”

Dean looked at him and for the first time in all these years, saw purpose in the man's eyes, the same he saw in Castiel's. That hadn't been a careless notion, it was a message to Dean, and Dean felt like he'd been judged again. It wasn't exactly his fault their relationship was screwed to hell. It always took two to tango.  
”Just saying,” Chuck mumbled submissively and turned away again.

The rest of the breakfast went on in silence, mostly interrupted by the heavy clings Castiel's spoon made each time it hit the bowl as his hands were too weak to guide it carefully down, and Dean found that even if he was pissed off, he was more depressed by the notion. It wasn't even because he was stuck with two men who both thought he was an asshole, but what the real reason was, he didn't know. Five minutes later, he dropped his spoon into the bowl and laid the bowl on the bed and muttered he'd be off, and that nobody should bother him unless the matter was of life and death.  
He abandoned his shirt on the chair and without giving it a second thought, picked up one of Castiel's, a much too big, long grey t-shirt that probably reached all the way up to knees when worn by the angel. It smelled of him, but Dean didn't care – he just needed to wear something he wouldn't regret ruining. Castiel probably wouldn't mourn the loss of this rag either, but just in case he would, Dean didn't ask for permission before leaving.  
In the dying summer's early morning light, surrounded by the voices of a hundred different birds all around him, Dean crossed the yard to the shed. It was padlocked, but he, as well as Chuck and the late Ben from Tucson, who'd been their main mechanic, carried the keys for it. Inside, the walls of the shed were lined with tens and tens of boxes full of spare parts, batteries, wires, wire parts, car parts and tape and tools, and in the dark where the small window's light didn't reach were piles of car wheels of all sizes for the equipment they had, and Impala's doors, one in a lot better condition than the car itself was, given that it'd been moved here a long while ago. The other was less so, as he'd only briefly picked it up after finding his younger self sneaking around the car, thinking it would be for the best to remove any additional hideouts from uninvited visitors. That door was in a hideous condition, just like the rest of the formerly so beautiful Chevy.  
Dean rummaged around for a while, gathering what he needed inside a couple oil-stained towels that had hung by the door. He took them outside, walked back into the shed and took a firm grip of one of the doors.  
He carried it outside, did the same for the other, and after locking the padlock again from old habit – after all, who the hell would come by to steal their wares now when there was hardly anyone left here in the first place – he stopped to plan his next move.  
First, he'd need to get the car out of the damn bog, and for that, he'd need a shovel and at least three mature bulls to drag it, but lacking those, he'd just need to cross his fingers and hope he had superhuman strength hidden deep beneath his skin, just waiting to be discovered. The shovel was easy to find, however, they had plenty of those all around the premises. He didn't even have to look for long, as there was one leaning against the shed's wall just behind the corner.  
He could worry about the rest later. It served little purpose to clean up the car before it was out of the pit, so he could heat the water up later, or see if there was any in the boiler by the main cabin. For his Baby, someone could afford a cold shower tonight. If it came down to that, he'd gladly trade off his turn to shower for the last and take the freezing water. He'd been through much worse than that.

Dean was glad for the trees that grew by where the car had been unceremoniously buried. They gave him a false sense of security, like nobody could see him doing what he was doing. If someone did, they'd think he'd lost his mind, and maybe he had. That wasn't of importance. The only thing that mattered was that this car needed to be unburied.  
The shovel's head dug into the ground and Dean immediately realised he had a problem – the soil was full of roots, small but durable roots that had to be hacked out of the way like honest to God metal wires that refused to bend when he thrust the dull edge of the shovel into them. It only made his work harder, however: it didn't prevent him from doing it. It didn't even manage to discourage him, as the difficulty of his task felt symbolic somehow. He'd let everything come down to this, and fixing it would be hard. That didn't stand for the car, it stood for everything, and the more he hacked, the better he felt. Fixing what he'd broken was impossible, but fixing Impala was not. Cutting all the ropes that tied him to the block of cement that was dragging him down was impossible, but cutting through the roots was not. This was something he could handle, and it had been a long, long while since he'd last felt like he could truly handle something, that he couldn't fail.  
So time after time he pushed the shovel back into the ground, snapped a root or two, repeated until the hole was clear. Then he dug the next part, shallower and shallower to form tracks along which he might be able to push the car out of the pit.  
Once he had the tracks cleared, he laid the shovel against a young cedar tree and moved behind the car. He pushed, first with hands and then with his whole body, but the car didn't even budge. Grimacing, Dean picked up the shovel again and dug the tracks deeper, longer, until the car swung on its own, the empty wheels rolling an inch forwards out of their wet graves. Sweat trickled down Dean's face but he smiled nonetheless as he walked around the car again, his shoes full of muddy water, and set his palms against the cold, grimy metal.  
He drew breath, closed his eyes and pushed with all the strength he had, and when the car rolled forwards, he almost felt like he was flying. His toes dug into the moist soil and he pushed and pushed, taking steps further into the mud, his muscles burning with the effort he used, and finally the wheels caught onto the hard ground and he could roll the car out of the pit and onto the firm ground ahead, past the long grass and onto the gravel.  
When he heard the gravel grinding under the flat wheels, he laughed and fell on his knees, the sharp stones digging into his skin through the worn jeans he wore, and he panted and laughed until he could breath again and his abdomen and arms stopped feeling like they were on fire. He'd done it.  
Now he'd need to get the water and something to rub all those years off the metal.

*

The gravel was dark brown with water and all the dirt Dean had brushed from the car, but what remained under the midday sun pleased the man's eyes. He'd even managed to remove most of the rust from everywhere except the car's underside, but that could wait, there was probably a lot down there that he'd need to properly look into later. Now he would install the doors. The interior of the car was dirty and rugged and moist and moldy, and he'd even found a mouse under the front seat, but all of that was redeemable, if not all of it so easily. It'd only take work, a lot of work, but he had time now. In fact, he didn't know what else he currently had but time, as all his plans had failed and he saw no purpose in making new ones, as if anyone would even listen to him if he tried.

He brought the driver's side door first and fixed it in its frames. The hinges would definitely need oiling, so he left the door a little ajar so as to not stress the metal too much later on, and moved onto the next door. Putting it back in place was harder than the other, the hinges were rusty and the parts refused to merge, so he had to lay the door down for a moment to scrub off the worst offenders before trying again. It didn't work, so he fetched more of the oil instead and heavily lubed the parts on both sides. Now the door slipped into its slot nicely, and he could close both sides. The locks didn't work. That was problematic. He'd manage it somehow, but later.

He was cleaning his hands to the less oily towel and considering taking an hour off to eat and rest a little when he heard quick-paced footsteps approaching him from behind. When he glanced over his shoulder he saw Chuck, his expression anxious and tense.  
”I told you not to come,” he grunted displeasedly.

”Unless the matter couldn't wait,” Chuck noted breathlessly, ”and this one really, really can't, you _need_ to come right away.”

Dean frowned. The other man was clearly shocked, his skin was pale and his eyes were wider than usual, and his whole body language screamed uncertainty and shock.  
”Fine,” Dean said reluctantly, ”What is it? Castiel?”

Chuck shook his head.  
”Just... just come with me. I don't know... I can't really say – it's... complicated, you'll see, just a moment. I ordered the guards off the area, said - never mind that, it's not important, we just don't have much time - you definitely need to see into this before they will. If we need to shoot, then it has to be you shooting, you know?”

The matter only seemed to grow stranger by the minute.  
”What? Chuck, no, I don't know. I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Chuck shivered. He grabbed Dean's sweaty shirt and dragged him along.  
”You'll see,” he repeated feverishly, ”Just come with me, you have to come.”

Dean raised his brows but didn't try to push the matter. Chuck was too troubled, he'd get his answers faster if he just followed him to wherever he was leading him, and that was as good as it would get. They passed the cabins, then the toilets, and marched on the unkept, unpaved road that lead to the back gate of the camp site.  
”Are you going to shoot me in the head where nobody else can see, or why the hell are we heading this way?” Dean finally had to ask.

”Shut up, Dean,” Chuck muttered, ”And open your eyes.”

Dean frowned again. Against his nature, he did do as he was told, mostly because his curiosity was much stronger than his annoyance at being bossed around like a newcomer. It took him a while to pinpoint the problem in what he saw, but when he did, his heart stopped and seemed to shrink or twist itself into a knot, and the feeling hurt like hell. His fingers grasped around his chest as if to look for a bullet that hadn't been fired, but his mind was entirely on what he saw, and what he saw was a muddy, bloody lump of white in the middle of the road, ending in a mess of brown hair. The man was kneeling on the ground, his hands were torn and the knees of his once white pants were torn open and bloody as well like he'd crawled the whole way. His hair was a mess, looking like it had endured the whole wrath of the storm the other night, and the jacket he wore looked like he'd been ran over by a pack of wild horses, if not downright rolled in a puddle.  
Some kind of madness took a hold of Dean. He gripped Chuck's hand, forced his arm in the air and took the gun from his belt, barely hearing the protests of the man. Then he was by the padlocked gate, then on its other side, having hardly any idea how he'd crossed it because he for sure had not opened it and the chain fence was rather hard to climb, but he didn't care, he couldn't care. He removed the safety from the gun and aimed at the kneeling man. His finger bent around the trigger and he drew air, but his muscles cramped painfully and his grip loosened again. The man raised his face to him, his features dirty and bruised, lip open and blood dripping down his jaw, but the eyes were just the same as ever, and Dean still couldn't breath. He forced his finger down but it wouldn't go low enough to trigger the gun. He fell on his knees in front of the other and let out a nearly inhuman sound of pain and grief, threw the gun aside and took a hold of the man's hair instead, pulling his face up so that he could look into his eyes, trying to see what was beyond the green, or rather, _who_ was.  
”Is it you, Sam? Is it... are you...?”

”It's... me, Dean, I...”

The younger's eyes turned up and he fell forwards. Dean caught him and pulled him close and held him tight against himself, not knowing what to do, what to say, where to head next. He pushed his face against the man's shoulder and listened to his laboured breathing.  
”I'll get you out of here, baby brother, it's alright, you're safe now. You're safe now, Sammy.”


	5. We're All Mad Here

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Dean didn't listen to a word Chuck was shooting at him when he carried Sam up to the gate and told the other to open the padlock for them so he could take the younger inside. He cut off his doubts, refused to hear anything about Lucifer's plans – why would Lucifer plan anything, why would he let Sam crawl all the way up to here? Dean was worthless to him. The only reason he'd do that would be to let Dean believe he'd gotten his brother back, only to take him from him again, but that was a thought Dean shut out of his mind. He didn't care. The only thing he cared about was the man he held, and he needed to get him inside.  
Besides, Sam was heavy, and dragging him along was exhausting Dean faster than he would have cared for.

Finally Chuck backed off and opened the padlock, undid the chains and pushed the gate open. Dean marched past him without a thank you or even as much as glancing at him, and the sounds of the chains locking up the fence again echoed inside his ears like trapped ghosts all the way until the porch of Castiel's cabin. He hadn't thought where he was carrying Sam, but retrospectively, this was probably the best place to bring him for various reasons, one of them being that Castiel could probably still tell the difference between Sam and Lucifer, and another being that the cabin currently held all the necessary equipment for taking care of injuries and Dean knew precisely where everything was, unlike in the rest of the cabins. And, a thought from his subconscious surfaced against his will when he crossed the threshold, this way they were all there. His whole family.  
Broken but together.

Behind him, he heard Chuck stepping up the few stairs to the door, and when he'd dragged Sam halfway to the bedroom, the tail of the group closed the door behind them.  
Castiel crawled up on his spot, the dark rings around his eyes deeper than before against the paper white skin. Dean pursed his lips and closed his eyes as he laid Sam on the bed next to him. When he next opened his eyes, the angel next to them was staring at Sam like he'd seen a ghost.  
”Is it Lucifer? Cas, _is it Lucifer_ or – or is it...?” he heard himself demanding.

Chuck walked past him, quick and quiet, and helped Castiel's back to the wall so that he wouldn't have to use his strength to holding himself in that position.  
Castiel shook his head ever so slightly, looking like he was about to faint for a moment before clarity returned to his eyes.  
”It's not Lucifer, Dean. It's him.”

”Are you certain?”  
Dean stepped forwards, pushed Chuck aside and laid both hands over Castiel's shoulders, his palms pressing against the wall in a demanding, dominant and threatening manner.  
”Can you say for sure?”

Castiel nodded.  
”I'm certain. Lucifer's... not here. It's only him. It's only Sam.”

He looked into Dean's eyes, and the sadness behind the blue of his eyes struck something inside the younger. For a moment, Dean forgot the pounding of his heart and the need to do something for Sam, and he merely looked and saw, and hoped he could understand why that feeling was so overwhelming inside the angel. Then Castiel looked away again, leaned his head back and with a sigh, closed his eyes.

”Chuck, get him something. Anything. For the pain. I'll look after Sam,” Dean commanded.

Chuck sighed but turned to leave. In a moment, Dean heard him closing the door, but at that point he was already leaning over Sam. He tried the man's pulse and found it alright, it was weak and fast but definitely there, which calmed him down a little. He brushed his fingers through the younger's hair and made a quick analysis of what was important now.  
”I suggest you give him water, Dean,” Castiel spoke in a hoarse voice.  
Dean glanced at him and nodded. Knees hurting, he got up again and walked to the kitchenette, poured a cup full of water and brought it to the bedroom. Unthinking, his gaze swept past Castiel, but soon returned to him again, particularly his chapped lips. He swallowed and turned course, sitting on the bed beside the angel instead. Eyes staring into the older's, he offered the red cup to him instead, and Castiel smiled weakly before reaching to take it.  
”Thank you, Dean.”

”You look awful,” Dean noted, trying to calm his rapid heartbeat and concentrate on what was important.

Castiel sipped the water before leaning his head back against the wall and letting out a tired chuckle.  
”I feel awful,” he said, ”but you're right, look after Sam first. He could still be, mm, _useful_ to you.”

Dean's jaw dropped.  
”What's that supposed to mean?” he asked roughly.  
Castiel eyed him up and down before replying.  
”You know what it means,” he finally said and drank more.

Dean huffed and left the bedside for another cup of water. He also took a towel and after bringing those to the bedroom, he filled a bucket with the remaining water and carried that to Castiel's side. He was right, Sam could wait now. From the looks of it, Sam was going to survive, and if he'd wake up, Dean would be close enough. What was important right now was to make sure that Castiel didn't die because he was too busy to spare him a moment of his time.  
”Are you going to drown me in that bucket?” the angel asked with a crooked smile.

”Nope,” Dean replied and huffed frustratedly, ”I'm going to check on that wound, but only after you've ditched that blanket and your shirt and, actually, your pants too.”

”And why the hell would I do that?” Castiel asked, eyes closed again.

”Because if you don't, that fever is going to kill you,” Dean grunted, grabbing the edge of the blanket.  
He was about to pull it off when Castiel grabbed his wrist with surprising strength, opened his eyes and looked at Dean determinedly.

”Then let me die.”

Dean glanced at the angel and chuckled tiredly.  
”No way,” he replied simply and forced the blanket down.  
He didn't expect Castiel to give up easily, but when the older didn't release his wrist and entirely refused to move, he had to admit he hadn't expected that either.

”Dean.”  
  
”Yeah?”  
  
”I'm serious.”

”Yeah? You know what, I don't give a rat's ass about how serious you are or aren't,” Dean said, his voice trembling with anger.

”I'm not letting you die. That's not a fucking option here. You either do what I tell you to do, or I'm going to have to force you to. You can't put up a fight, not in that condition. So what shall it be? Can you undress on your own or do I really have to do that for you?”

Another thing he hadn't expected was the smile that his words prompted on the older's face. Castiel let out a sound and laid the cup he'd still held with his other hand down on the table. He breathed in and closed his eyes for a second, but then he repositioned himself into a better position and, with Dean's help because it seemed to be impossible without, pulled off his shirt. Clumsily, he pushed down his pants as well. Neither of them cared of the pile the formed under the blanket. Dean nodded approvingly, sat back on the bed and reached to push the curtain aside to get some light in the room.  
”You know, I was expecting you to call my mother a bitch. Don't let me down now, Dean.”

Dean spared him barely a quick glance before leaning closer to the wound as he removed the tapes from around the gauze covering the injury.  
”You don't have a mother, you sorry son of a bitch.”  
The room seemed to grow warmer with the older's smile.

There was a nasty blueish tint to the wound today. The area was swollen and the gaps between the stitches were pushing up, glittering and wet, and the immediate vicinity of the wound was painfully purple and irritated. Definitely an infection brewing up.  
Dean considered his options when he heard the door open and close again. Castiel grunted, pulling up the blanket again. His breathing was fast, much faster than normal, and seemed to take a lot of his strength to maintain.

Chuck threw a bottle of pills at them, and instinctively, Dean grabbed it from flight.  
”Thanks, Chuck. Can I bother you for a second more?” he asked, looking at the man.

”I don't know, maybe? If it's really important.”

Dean nodded.  
”It is. Get me a bottle of something strong, as in, strong enough to clean an infected wound with.”

Chuck sighed.  
”Is it that bad?”

”It's bad enough and I'd rather it not get any worse than it is,” Dean answered truthfully.  
Castiel looked at him examiningly, but Dean ignored him. Chuck hummed uncertainly, turned around and walked away again.  
”So, doc, what's the prognosis?” the angel asked after the door had once more closed.

”That if you don't shut up, I'm going to lose my mind.”

Castiel smiled.  
”You already did that, way back in the day. So how about you answer truthfully?”

Dean licked his lips and took the towel, wrestling it in his hands and hoping Chuck would hurry up with the booze: he'd need some of it as medication for his own growing anxiety.  
”Truthfully?” he repeated, tasting the word, ”Truthfully, Cas, with anyone else in this situation, I'd say we can't do anything. That doesn't mean you're dying, it just means that you're beyond what I can do to help. You know what _that_ means? It means that you need to start fighting.”

Castiel was still smiling. He leaned the back of his head to the wall behind and breathed in and out silently, his eyes moving restlessly behind the closed lids.  
”Is that what you really want?” he asked.

Dean stared at him.  
”What do you mean? Of course it is. Goddamnit Cas, I'm tired of your games. I just want you to live. I need you to. I already told you.”

”But you have Sam now.”

”Do I? How do we know how he's going to turn out like when he wakes up? No, you can't just give up and die. Do you really need a joint to stop whining?”

Castiel snorted.  
”I'd kill for one,” he muttered, ”but times have changed again, haven't they.”

”They sure as hell have.”

*

Sam felt like opening his eyes was a task too difficult for his body to perform. His mind lingered on things that had happened years before, his memories seemed to have lost order and things that couldn't have happened recently seemed to be closer than things that had definitely happened recently. For example, he felt like just minutes ago, he'd walked up the steps to their fifth school. He could still feel the pressure of his school bag upon his shoulders and the discomfort it caused as the straps rubbed against his body. It was much too heavy for him to carry, but he hadn't known what subjects they'd be learning that day, so he'd packed every book to make sure he wouldn't be the only one without.  
Then distantly, he remembered once looking up to Dean's face when the older had walked out of a fenced camping site, dirty and rugged and smelling of oil and rust. A long, long time ago, his arm had been around his brother's shoulders as they approached the gate, behind which someone was unlocking the large padlock, someone with a shining face like a thousand suns burning at once, a terrifying yet familiar face, with hands like an eagle's feet, the claws flaming with white fire.  
He'd passed out. Then he'd been at the mall, hunting down the ghost of a man who'd been shot there. Dean's voice echoed in his ears, telling him to watch out for the falling ceiling tile.

His body jerked as if to get out of the way.

”Wow, wow, easy now there, Sammy. You awake?” a voice called from far away.

That memory had to be from a while back. He frowned a little, trying to decide what had happened last. His brain offered him a memory of his father smiling at him, a colourful kite somewhere behind his head, blurry against a white sky. One of the few moments he'd felt like a normal kid. But he was no kid today, so that was out of the question.  
Slowly, he opened his eyes, feeling like a spell had broken, allowing him to move again. He saw Dean sitting next to him, and above them was a ceiling of red wood. The air was thick with unfamiliar sweet scents.

”Hey... Dean,” he spoke, barely recognising his own voice, ”Where are we?”

”Welcome to Camp Chitaqua and hell on Earth, baby bro. The team wishes you well,” Dean said, and Sam didn't understand any of it.

”He's saying,” another voice spoke nearby, a dead, raspy, low and dry voice that filled the pit of Sam's stomach with what felt like liquid panic, ”that you're not in Kansas anymore.”

”And Cas here,” Dean growled and looked away from Sam, ”is so high that he can't even spell his own name.”

”Cas?” Sam repeated and closed his eyes.  
A white horse galloped through his vision. He'd never seen it before in his whole life.  
”Castiel.”  
His lips felt like he might have said the word, but he wasn't sure, the voice certainly hadn't been his. He felt something pushing between his fingers and he let out a sound, trying to pull his hand free.

”Calm down, Sam, you're okay. You're fine, you're safe here.”

”Dean?”  
  
He heard Dean's breathing, but he couldn't be near Dean.  
The ocean was too close.  
Someone sighed, or it could have been the wind blowing against the Roadhouse's windows. Jo was there. Jo was somewhere. The radio played blues. Was he back at the campus?

”Give him time, Dean. He had an archangel inside him. It's a miracle he has any brain functions left at this stage.”  
The raspy voice of death again.

The wind at this graveyard was cold as ice and it penetrated his bones and tore his burned skin off like slimy seaweeds from bare, naked rocks the waves had licked smooth and turned to the images of the moon. Carving, carving until the marrows were exposed. His lungs were full of seawater and his mind blacked out again.

*

Dean watched Sam fall back into unconsciousness, and a disappointed little sound escaped his lips. He poured himself another glass of whiskey and downed half of it immediately. His gaze landed upon a spot in the distance and stayed there.  
”Care to share?” Castiel asked.  
He looked a healthier shade than earlier and his fever had gone down by some, but Dean knew it was hardly reason to celebrate yet. He turned his eyes to the red plastic cup from which Castiel had drank water earlier and poured some from the bottle in it, quite certain that it was a bad idea on top of the painkillers the older had taken before, but he said nothing about it. Half a cup probably wouldn't do more harm than it did good for the male right then.

They sat in silence on both sides of Sam, and little by little Dean grew aware of the fact they'd hardly been talking over the past years. He felt regret for that fact, the manner he'd pushed Castiel away because he didn't want to hear the truth. Just the same morning, he'd had the opposite gut feeling to the situation, that he didn't want to be close to the angel for that very reason. He wasn't sure if it was Sam's presence or the time he'd spent with Impala, fixing it and thinking about his life and his past and the choices that had led him here, that had changed how he felt about Castiel, but the result was that now, he feared he'd lost more than just an ally in the angel.  
He turned his tired eyes to him and swore that if he could, he'd try to fix this. Relationships were much harder and much more complicated than cars were, but if he'd really try, maybe he'd get somewhere before it was too late to try anymore.  
Or was it already too late?  
After all, he had willingly sent the other to die, never expecting him to live through the ambush.

”I...” he started, but his throat closed in on him and he swallowed the rest of the sentence.  
Still too good to apologise. For so long, he had told himself he could never be wrong, that sacrifices were a fact of life that kept the strongest alive. Strongest... or himself? For revenge that he had never gotten.  
”... just wondering. How did Sam get here? Where's Lucifer?”

Castiel shrugged. A flash of pain crossed his expression, but his senses were dull enough from the medication to take the edge away, Dean could see the relief that briefly appeared after the pain had gone without reaching its peak first.  
”Maybe God woke up,” the angel smirked, voice full of bitter irony.  
Dean downed the rest of his whiskey and grimaced.  
”He better not have, or He's my next target.”

”I'd imagine he must be cowering in fear,” Castiel noted, ”given how you didn't even manage to ice the one he cast out of heaven.”

More whiskey. They'd have to find a new bottle to clean wounds with at this rate, although Dean wasn't all too concerned about that. There was a certain perk about the world being populated with mainly croatoan zombies and alcohol not spoiling; the liquor stores were untouched, full of treasures just waiting to be carried away and consumed in silent desperation. They had enough wares of this stuff to last them a lifetime. Best booze money could buy, and all for free.  
During the relatively short time they'd lived this life, they'd already lost one woman to alcohol poisoning, although it had to be admitted that Brittany had been suicidal to begin with, so the accident had probably been planned ahead.

Dean sipped the drink and felt it burning its way down to his stomach. This was a bad time to get drunk, but to hell with it. Another opportunity might never come.

”Apparently my brother did,” he noted after so long time that Castiel had clearly already forgotten what he was referring to.

”Curious, that.”

”Curiouser and curiouser, cried Alice...”  
Dean drew in a deep breath of the dusty air and felt stomach cramping. He'd almost forgotten he still hadn't eaten anything since the early morning, and he'd worked hard after that. His body jumped when he felt Castiel's hand on his, and he looked at the angel, not knowing what to say or do. When had anyone last even dared to touch him?

” _'Now I'm opening out like the largest telescope that ever was. Good-bye, feet!'_ ”

Dean's brows knit together and he had to down the next half of his drink in one run to properly digest the fact that Castiel had just quoted Alice in Wonderland.  
”Don't expect me to go on with this, I've never been in a gayer situation in my life.”

Castiel chuckled silently. He looked out the window and stayed quiet for a while, but when he turned back, he had a different sort of a smile on his features than what he usually wore, like he had remembered something pleasant that he had thought he'd forgotten.  
” _'Oh, my poor little feet, I wonder who will put on your shoes and stockings for you now, dears? I'm sure I shan't be able. I shall be a great deal too far off to trouble myself about you. You must manage the best way you can. But I must be kind to them, thought Alice, or perhaps they won't walk the way I want to go.'_ ”

He lowered his gaze and shook the cup he held, finally downing the remaining drink from it.  
”There was a girl,” he said after, still tasting the drink, ”of nine years, a dark-haired pretty child with large brown eyes.”

Dean looked away.  
”I didn't know you're into little girls. Or fairytales, for that matter.”

Castiel smirked, but when he shook his head, the smirk died down into that bittersweet smile of before.  
”She had a brain tumour, but she started praying to me before she was diagnosed. The pain she went through was intense and it scared her, but she felt safer in her bed, under the blanket with her hands crossed and head bowed down to prayer.”

”How did she pray to you? You're not exactly a very popular angel, you know, in scriptures and masses.”

”She'd found a book on angelic lore from her mother's bedroom a while back. Her mother didn't know. She hid it under her bed and mainly looked at it for the pictures. Most of the things written in it were too difficult for her to understand anyway. The book had a list of angel names, and she simply picked the one that she felt a connection with.”

The corner of Dean's mouth twitched slightly at the thought of other angels.  
”Lucky strike.”

Castiel let out an indecisive huff.  
”Through that, I had a connection with her," he continued, "It was much before we angels interfered with anything going on down here, but that didn't mean prayers didn't reach us. I was watching over her, and that brought her some comfort to the final moment. I visited her in a dream once, having faith that nobody would believe her if she told them, but she never did. Alice in Wonderland was her favourite book. She often opened our link by calling my name quietly while her mother read the book to her. During the few years I spent with her before she ascended to heaven, she learned the book from cover to cover and could recite it from beginning to end without a single mistake.”

Dean crossed his legs on the bed and remembered that his hand was still under the angel's. Suddenly, he didn't mind it all that much.  
”Quite the memory on that one,” he said, not actually having any idea of how long the books were.

”Well, she spent most of her time stuck in her bed. She wished that after death, she'd go to Wonderland.”

”Did she?”  
  
”Close enough,” Castiel replied with a small shrug.

The sun was slowly setting outside. It had changed the way the interior looked now that the curtains were open to let the coppery light in. Castiel moved uncertainly, then returned his gaze to Dean.  
”Could you light an incense?” he asked.

Dean tilted his head indecisively before getting up from the bed. His bare feet landed back on the soft wooden planks of the floor, but in only a couple steps, he was on a carpet again. The pack of incenses was where it had been before – Dean laid down the bottle in his hand and placed his glass next to it, took up the incenses and fetched the matches he'd used the previous night, and walked back to the bedside table on Castiel's side.  
Castiel pulled out the old, burnt incense and placed it vertically along the table's side, and Dean planted a new stick onto the holder and lit its tip. Castiel blew the fire off, grinning.  
”Amateur.”

Dean ignored him and eyed the bed instead.  
”I think we're going to have a hard time fitting on that,” he grinned, ”How do you host your orgies on a bed that small?”

”This is a queen size bed. This is big enough for me and the girls. If your ego takes up too much space to fit in it, then that's your problem.”

This was the new Castiel speaking again. To Dean's great surprise, he noticed that with alcohol, he almost liked the way the other poked at him. Without alcohol, it was unbearable and made him want to find the older's wings just to nail them to the wall and set them on fire, and even that wasn't really enough. Right there and then however, the line made him laugh.  
”I don't know if you ever paid attention, but Sam's quite big.”

”Maybe equal to two of my girls. Cindy and Ellie. Or perhaps Cindy and Beatrice. Eleonora's butt would get out of Sam's area of influence.”  
Castiel sighed and reached a hand over his neck. He was wearing his sweatpants again, on Dean's permission only, yet now he was trembling a little and still refused to pull on the blanket. He'd said it was because Dean had given him a command, and he couldn't risk raising the fewer. Dean knew he was merely fucking with him - being stubborn for the sake of it - but the lengths to which he was ready to go just to prove his point were nothing short of amazing. If Dean had trampled over him and forced him to go out in a snowstorm, he would most likely have stood there until he'd frozen to death, refusing to come back in because the loss had wounded his ego.

He was like a child.

”Cas,” Dean started, still mainly thinking of where he intended to sleep the coming night – there was no way he'd leave Sam here alone, and with Castiel injured the way he was, he wasn't much of a guard.  
”On the angel scale, how old are you?”

”On the angel scale as in approximately trying to compare my age to human years?”

”I don't know. On a scale that makes sense to you and me both.”

”Not all that old. Older than many, younger than many more still. I don't know how to give you an informative answer on this. Time is very different for my kind than it is to yours. Was, anyway.”  
The angel looked up at Dean and huffed.  
”There are spare mattresses under the bed. They're not for sleeping, we used them for yoga, but since you're dead set on avoiding potentially homoerotic or incestuous situations, that's your best shot.”

Dean looked back at him suspiciously.  
”No bodily fluids on them?”

”None that I know of, anyway,” Castiel smirked.


	6. A Can of Worms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting here forever trying to think of a note but I cannot possibly come up with anything. I don't even know what I want to say. This chapter would, however, greatly benefit from a note. So imagine one here. Thank you.

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

There was no cold air creeping across the floors in this cabin. Dean was thankful for it, his neck didn't need any more strain on it than the damage he was still recovering from. He'd had hardly any time to concentrate on how sick he felt, being surrounded with one comatose little brother and a dying angel, but now that he lied there listening to the two of them breathe, he felt sick to his stomach and sore from head to toe. Too much had happened for him to spare a moment to consider whether or not he was ready to take on any of what he'd done that day. He'd listened to his body the whole time he'd been fixing the car and he'd avoided doing the things that strained his neck and spine too much, but after Sam had crashed the party, he'd forgotten himself.  
The swelling was back now, and he had nobody but himself to blame for it. There was no ice either, he'd need to move to the main cabin to get his hands on any, and he didn't feel like wandering in on anyone at this moment. He'd told Chuck to keep everyone out and not to mention Sam to anyone. It was too early to say anything, too early to risk someone wandering in with a gun and putting a bullet through the younger's head, believing Dean was too weak to take on the job.

He was drifting closer to sleep when suddenly, he was woken up by the sound of bare feet on the floor. Silently, he rose up and saw Sam standing by the bed's side, looking around, clearly unaware that Dean had woken up – if he even knew Dean was there. Apparently he had woken up some time earlier, as he'd removed the less than white socks he'd worn and ditched them somewhere. When he moved, his steps were weak and uncontrolled.

Dean stood up, carefully so as to not scare the taller with a fast movement.  
”Sammy?” he called quietly and uncertainly.

Sam turned to look at him and seemed lost for a brief moment. Then he smiled.  
”Dean,” he called out his brother's name, ”Is it really you?”

”It's me alright,” Dean confirmed and the widest relieved smile forced its way up to his lips, ”Cas is asleep – let's go to the other room, he doesn't need to wake up to us chatting.”

He didn't care if Sam could walk on his own, he still offered a hand to guide him through the dark to the room in front of them, and in there on a large green pillow serving the purpose which normal people used chairs for. Before sitting down on the equally large purple pillow Dean moved to the stove to light up the small battery lamp sitting next to it. When he was down on the floor in front of Sam, despite all the anxiety he felt, he yawned. It had been a way too long day for his liking, especially since he hadn't gotten that much sleep the night before either.  
When he saw again, all he had eyes for was his brother.

Their heartbeats counted time. They breathed in and out in a slowing pace, watching each other, waiting for the other to say something, anything, but neither could find the words. Outside, the wind rummaged through the cabin's roof. A sharp knock spoke of a small branch hitting the metal somewhere above their heads, and even though the sound was normal and not threatening at all, it made Sam's body tense up.  
Finally, Dean reached out a hand at him, and Sam took it and held it tight. He smiled a broken man's smile with tears in his eyes and appeared to be close to words that never came out. At last he shook his head and turned his head down.  
”I don't know what to say,” he broke the silence.

”You know, me neither,” Dean chuckled awkwardly, ”There are so many things – the whole time since you were gone, I just... there's so much I wanted to tell you. I missed you, Sam. I missed you like hell.”

A shadow crossed the younger's features. Dean recognised it; it was the expression Sam wore when he had bad news, but didn't want to spoil his happiness with them or thought that the truth wasn't worth the pain the words brought. Sam wore a smile over it and nodded.  
”So, you... mentioned Camp Chitaqua,” he said instead of replying.

Dean nodded. Digging out the facts could wait.  
”You were awake?” he asked, examining Sam curiously.

Sam shrugged, then shook his head.  
”Not really. It just hit a chord in me I guess. A location, something... solid.”

”Yeah, well, it's this place. A camping site turned revolutionary camp turned a buffet with us being the food, just waiting for the guests to arrive,” Dean summed it up with a grimace.  
Sam, who was still holding his hand, tightened his grip of it and looked uncomfortable. He knew, Dean thought, he knew about what Dean had done. Perhaps more. He wanted to ask how aware he had been while under control, or how he'd escaped, how much he knew and did he have any idea what would happen next, but he was held back by the incapability of bringing up the subject. He had no idea what Sam had been through, but he wasn't stupid, not _yet_ , and every sense in him screamed against touching that particular can of worms. Who knew what would come out of it – neither of them was ready for it.

”What happened to Cas?” Sam asked cautiously.

”He got shot,” Dean replied.  
He rubbed his nose with his wrist to get a moment to think, finding that he wasn't entirely sure what to say about the overall situation.  
”And he ran out of juice a while back now. Around when the Croatoan struck, actually. So he's like one of us in most aspects. Best part is that he can still sniff out some pretty important details, like, well, dicks with wings hiding inside people. Otherwise he's pretty useless.”

Sam's lips tightened and turned a shade paler, but he nodded.  
”I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry I... in Detroit, that I...”

”Yeah, I know, never mind that.”  
Of course it wasn't like that. There were things Dean could forgive and forget, and then things that would haunt him for the rest of his life, and Sam in Detroit was deep in the latter group. Right there and then however, none of that mattered. He didn't let any of it matter.  
He struggled to say something else to patch the silence that seemed to scream what he'd left unsaid.  
”Sam, it doesn't matter, it's over. I'm just glad to have you back before we inevitably die. I'm a dead man. I'm just waiting, and you know me, I'd rather be with the family when it happens. I couldn't bring you back, and I don't know what did, but the what's important is that you're here now and I'm not letting you get lost again.”

Sam shivered. A drop of blood ran down his lip and Dean realised he'd bitten through it.  
”No matter what we say,” the younger spoke silently, ”It doesn't change anything.”

”No.”  
With that, Dean reached to wipe off that drop. He dried his finger onto his shirt and felt nauseous again, this time from all the emotions that clashed together inside his chest.  
”So let's not talk.”

Sam looked up at him again and frowned.  
”Is that a solution now? Who are you?”

Dean shrugged. He didn't know.  
”If you have a better idea, I'm all ears. _I_ fucked up, Sam. I fucked up big time. There's nothing I can do to fix it. We killed the world, I think we don't deserve the freedom of making our own decisions anymore. We can't solve shit.”

The older's ears picked up sounds from the bedroom. When he looked up behind Sam's shoulder, he saw Castiel approaching them. Sam turned around on his pillow and stood up. He walked determinedly up to the angel and brought the other's arm around his shoulders so that Castiel could lean onto him. There was no sign of his earlier weakness and imbalance at all, and each step he took was stable and controlled – this struck Dean as somewhat odd, almost worrysome. The angel cast a grateful look at Sam, rebalancing himself so that his weight was shared between the two of them allowing him to reduce strain on the wound.

”Who gave you two the permission to wallow in self-pity and guilt without me?” the angel asked, kneeling onto the floor, still holding onto Sam until the ground supported him enough.  
Sam landed heavily back on his pillow and seemed a little lost again.

Dean still didn't know what to say, so in a while, he got up and grabbed the empty water container.  
”Cas?”

”Yes, Dean?”

”Your stove is still out of gas.”

”Naturally. I've enjoyed an all-green diet for a while now. The stove is mostly useless, so I tend to forget.”

”I'll be gone for a moment, then.”  
With that, he walked out of the cabin, leaving Sam together with the angel. He needed coffee. Never mind the sleep.

 

*

Sam hugged his knees and watched Castiel take over the pillow Dean had left free. The angel looked back at him with a stranger's expression. He'd changed a lot since the day Sam had last seen him, and the changes weren't good.  
”You're hiding things,” Castiel finally noted and leaned back.  
He'd pulled on a long blue buttoned shirt, but Sam saw from the way he held a hand over his abdomen where the bullet had hit him. He'd covered his own wounds like that, instinctively to protect them from any harm that might come. The pressure gathered concentration on the area and made the pain worse.

”Take your hand off of it,” he replied absently, ”It'll help you forget the pain.”

Castiel huffed.  
”Nothing will make me forget the pain,” he said in a distressed voice, but he did let his hand down, and Sam smiled at him.

”You learn to live with it.”

”With a bullet wound?”

”Yeah. I've had many enough to know, believe me. That's a difficult spot to keep still, but the pain in the long run is easier to bear than with many other places. Not that that means much when you're healing off, but what I'm saying is that... try to keep still.”

Castiel leaned back with a small, almost cheerful-sounding sound.  
”There was a time once when I thought that humanity did have its perks, but now I know better. None of the sex, drugs or rock 'n roll will ever make up for all the crap you pull through daily.”

Sam laughed. He was surprised how normally he could function, like there was a thin wall of skin between this moment and what he was running from, and although the sharp edges would slowly claw their way through that obstacle, it allowed him humane interaction and flashes of emotions he hadn't felt in years, such as amusement, affection and nostalgy.  
”So, how did you do it?” the angel asked, lacking the fear Dean had felt in facing the subject.

Sam's ears registered a small sound as his teeth bit another slice off of his lip, flooding his mouth with the taste of iron almost immediately. He looked helplessly away, counting the nails on the floor in his immediate vicinity. 27 nails on the floor. Four on the walls. Darkness, carpets, pillows and dust covered up the rest.  
”I don't know,” he heard himself saying, ”I don't know how I regained control. It was like someone had cut the ropes first, and I only had to want to push through. At first, I didn't want to. Then it started coming back to me, everything. I don't remember much but I saw things, I remembered things. It was confusing, and it feels like a long dream. And as to how I'm still like this – how I didn't end up braindead, I don't know. He never destroyed me that way. He wanted me to watch. He wanted me there. He... did things to me while I was there, I couldn't let go, I couldn't...”

”That's my brother for you, always happy to share.”  
Swallowing and breathing were equally difficult, but Sam's body had long since forgotten how to cry or express pain in any other way than anger. His stomach growled, yet he lacked all appetite. It occurred to him that at this stage, he was probably starving, but the thought awoke little to no reaction in his mind. Wasting away was all he'd done for the past months. Whatever remained of him, the physical manifestation of him, the used skin he wore, was the least painful thing to starve.

”At first, I...” Sam's voice died off in a coarse quiet shriek as his throat closed forcefully on him.  
Once he remembered how to breathe again, he tried again.  
”It was almost as if he truly wanted me to want it. That he tried to make my sacrifice worth it for me.”

Castiel whistled.  
”I bet the things he did outweighted all the luxuries he could think of throwing at you.”

Sam nodded uncertainly.  
”I regretted it the moment I said it. I'd started regretting it _before_ I said it, but I don't think I really understood what the word meant before I... saw.”  
He shook from head to toe and his lungs felt like they were cast in cement.  
”I – I – I really don't – I can't talk about it, I...”

Castiel leaned forwards from the side that wasn't injured and before Sam knew, he had the angel's arm around his shoulders. The other's body felt hot against him and he smelled oddly of spilled whiskey and incenses, but for some reason, none of that mattered.  
”Calm down. Breathe. Just breathe. Dean's right, Sam. It's over now.”  
Sam choked, and through the cough that followed, he was surprised to find laughter.  
”When did you learn to comfort people?” he coughed, shivering and cold.

”I'm not proud of it,” Castiel replied uncertainly, but he did sound a little proud anyway.

 

*

When everything was lost – everything – what was there left to do anymore?  
Dean dragged the empty water container across the yard, past the cabins and towards the well. He'd left his shoes at the cabin - the gravel prickled at his feet and fell off one stone at a time when he hit a grassy spot. The grass in turn was slippery wet, cold and rubbery. It grew on nearly everything, even the paths, as there were nowhere near enough people to trample the ground infertile. When they'd arrived there, the gravel had been without green. Today, it barely differed from the rest of the grounds.

The newest problem was one that Dean hadn't predicted to come up. All this time he'd assumed Sam was dead. Now that he wasn't, it changed the rules of the game, and that wasn't even touching the subject of Lucifer yet. No, Dean was thinking of himself first, as he often did these days. He was confused. This wasn't supposed to happen. Sam wasn't supposed to be there. There was no way in hell Sam actually was there right now, and it had just now hit him, as the first hours he'd simply been too overwhelmed to think about it properly – much unlike him in every aspect imaginable.  
The cold night air helped him think, even if he'd never been the type to take walks to clear his head; that had always been Sam and not him. This, however, was a subject he simply couldn't drown in alcohol, which was his usual method of coping with problem solving that felt too difficult to handle.  
What he needed was, first off, to pinpoint the problems.

The first one, he thought as he stepped over a slippery, round stone on the way to the well, was of course the situation itself. Somehow, Sam was back.  
This raised another tricky question, which was the most objectively pressing problem: what about Lucifer?  
The third was that now, Dean wasn't sure what he felt about anything. He'd previously been certain that the battle was lost, but was it really? Now that Lucifer lacked his vessel, had the game changed? There was even the possibility of Lucifer being _gone_ , but that seemed like a ridiculous thought, so for the moment, Dean would assume Lucifer was still on the board. It seemed likely that he was out of Sam against his will, but it was also entirely possible that Sam had been let go, and therefore, Sam presented a threat to them.

Dean couldn't pretend to care.  
He laid the container on the ground next to the well and lowered the bucket into the water through the hole in the well's top, frowning the entire time. As he started reeling the now heavy, full bucket up, his mind seemed a little lighter than before.

Was it possible for an archangel to return to his vessel without regaining permission?  
If not, how did Dean know that Sam wouldn't willingly let him back in?  
How could he be certain that this was indeed Sam and not something else pretending to be Sam?  
He'd done the tests, of course, while Sam was still out of it. Silver, holy water, the whole shebang all the way to Enochian spells. Nothing affected him. But that wasn't what Dean was worried about either. Archangels destroyed their vessels. They were too powerful, containing them damaged the vessel beyond repair, he'd seen what they did with his own eyes before. Or, he'd seen what strong angels did. He had not seen what archangels did, yet Castiel had said it would be much, much worse than what he'd witnessed.  
So there was little chance for the Sam that he'd carried in to actually be his brother. Clearly, he was functioning, but the damage had to be somewhere. It could be possible that Lucifer had reconstructed a sort of a zombie out of what was left of Sam, although Dean had never heard of anything like that happening. It meant little, however. He hadn't really dealt with archangels that much before either. He had literally no idea what they were capable of.  
There was someone who had an idea, however, and as he poured water into the container, he started worrying about his choice of letting the two of them alone in the cabin.

If he was correct about Sam, then he'd just left his main source of information unprotected in the presence of something that probably wanted nothing more than to see him dead before he could share any of that crucial knowledge with Dean.

The man swallowed thickly as he shut the container and pulled it up from the ground. His heart was racing. Why the hell hadn't he been thinking before?


	7. Cornered (By A Pack of Elephants)

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Sam helped the angel back to bed. Then he lit a single candle on the bedside table, as the darkness in the room felt oppressive and unkind. Every time he'd looked at it and especially now that he stood in it, he felt like it tried to invade his body through the air he breathed like a demonic possession taking hold of him. He had to drive it away, but he tried to do it as inconspicuously as humanely possible, as the last thing he needed was for someone to know that he was now afraid of the dark like a little child. When he glanced at Castiel however, he could see that the angel was looking right through him to that shamed creature that resided inside, and he turned his eyes away much too quickly to pretend that was not true, swallowing thickly through the lump that was forming inside his throat.

”Sam.”  
Sam passed his tongue across the chapped skin of his lower lip before turning back and attempting a smile. Castiel returned it. His empathy lacked the pity Sam feared seeing.  
”I respect your brother's skills, but he says my wound can't be treated.”

Sam raised his brows slightly.  
”Are you asking for a second opinion?” he asked.

Castiel closed his eyes, nodding. He leaned his head back and laid his left hand on his chest to take it out of the way if Sam would take the task upon himself. And Sam did. He sat on the bed and reached to undo the buttons of the angel's shirt, pulling the left hem up once it was open far enough. With a confidence that seemed to stem from somewhere so deep inside him that its emergence surprised him, Sam undid the tapes and took the protective gauze off. What he saw wasn't nearly as bad as he'd expected. He smiled a little and shook his head.  
”You'll live,” he declared, ”Whatever Dean's been doing to help you, it's working. It's infected, but not badly, I'd say that your fever should be gone by tomorrow evening. It still has to be cleaned and the gauze changed often enough, but this is far from untreatable.”

His eyes strayed to look into Castiel's. The older was looking back at him again. There was no relief in his expression, but he seemed comfortable enough with what he heard.  
”It's been a few hours now,” the angel said after half a minute of silence and closed his eyes again, sighed wearily and adjusted his head on the pillow, ”I feel better than I did then.”

”Your body's fighting, every hour counts.”

Castiel nodded.  
”When Dean returns,” he spoke then, words undefined as his body relaxed to invite sleep, ”I'd love someone to get me a fresh cup of water. No need to wake me up for it, but I'll be thirsty enough to wake up on my own in a few anyway and I'm going to need that cup then.”

Sam nodded, even though the angel couldn't see it, and stood up again.  
”I'll take care of it,” he promised.

”Thank you. Remember... to take care of yourself as well. You deserve it, even if you don't think you do. Good men... make mistakes too,” Castiel muttered, struggling with the words as sleep took over him.

Sam didn't know if he expected an answer, but he didn't give him any, and instead left the room feeling conflicted. His feet took him to the statue of Buddha sitting on a low table against the wall and he sat down on the floor next to it, leaned his back to the wall behind him and let out a long, worn sigh. In a couple minutes the room started seeming too dark, and his heart started pumping louder and faster with each passing second. Shivering once more, Sam reached his cold fingers towards the box of matches in front of the bronze Buddha's feet and lit the two candles situated on the statue's both sides. At first, the warm fires helped with the fear he felt, but little by little he grew more aware of the sounds from outside. His heart interfered with his concentration, and he feared it masked what he should have heard, perhaps footsteps approaching (Dean's? They had to be Dean's – or were there any footsteps at all?) or someone coughing further away. The wind bells chimed lightly, he heard them from behind the door. Through a partially open window, the sounds of wind in the trees carried inside.  
He heard something creaking, but he wasn't sure if it was the bed or the floor or the walls or the porch or, gods forbid, the door. His eyes shot straight towards the last option, but nothing happened. The small room by the door was silent and seemingly unoccupied. Sam couldn't see into it, so he wasn't certain.  
He could hear his blood running, the sound of it like an ocean inside him, and shapes flashed from the corners of his eyes until he wanted nothing more than a gun within his reach to push against his temple to just end it all at once.

*

Dean hesitated by the door. He held a hand over the handgun he'd brought from his cabin along with the gas container that now sat on the porch next to the water. He had his plans, but he listened first in case he'd hear them still talking – if they were talking, he wouldn't have to charge in with his weapon drawn. The cabin was quiet however. From the windows, he saw the flickering of the candles mixing with the steady glow of the battery lamp, but no shapes crossing them. Perhaps they were sleeping. Dean hoped and prayed that they were sleeping, but he couldn't trust that. He laid a hand on the door's handle and pulled it open as quietly as he could, stepping in with his ears tuned to pick up any sound from inside. He heard nothing. He didn't close the door behind him, he needed an escape route in case things turned to hell, and as he took steps forwards, he readied the gun for firing.

When he reached the doorway to the cabin's main rooms, his finger loosened around the trigger immediately. Sam was sitting in the corner, head between his knees and hands over the back of his neck, rocking, behind a line of salt spread to lock him inside a safe zone with the bronze Buddha and two candles, protected by the cabin's wall from the sides. Even the window pane was salted, with some of the grains having fallen like snow on the table beneath. He clearly hadn't heard Dean coming in at all. He breathed fast and shallow, losing the rythm every now and then, resulting in a desperate gasp for air. Dean swallowed uncertainly. It could still be a trap, but his chest ached to see the man like this, and there was no way in hell he'd approach him with a gun drawn when he was in a state like that, so he sheathed his weapon the best he could by pushing it into his pocket with the safety back on. He backed out, grabbed the water and gas containers and made an unnecessarily lot of normal noise coming in to alert Sam to his presence. When he closed the door and dropped what he'd been carrying to wipe off his bare feet on the carpet in front of the door, he still heard nothing.  
”Anyone still awake?” he asked as innocently as he could before walking up to the doorway and peeking inside.  
He raised brows at the salt line and at Sam, who was now looking up at him, face pale and whole body trembling.  
”The hell are you doing there?”

Sam hugged his knees and seemed to be at loss for words.  
”Jesus, did you see a ghost? Where's Cas?” Dean went on as he approached the younger.  
He held a hand out for Sam, looking him in the eye with a serious but warm expression that conflicted with the seeming carelessness of his voice.  
”Don't hide there, I'm here, Sammy. Nothing's coming to get you.”

Sam reached his shaking hand to grab Dean's, and Dean pulled him up. He still refused to leave the safety of his salt zone, but at least he was standing.  
”You were unarmed before,” the younger noted, his eyes jumping between Dean's face and the gun's handle peeking out of his pocket.

”True,” Dean grinned and pulled the gun out without taking a proper hold of it to show he had no intentions to shoot, ”Thought we could use an extra here, so I took it when I went to get gas. I was thinking of making coffee but you look like you could use a glass of something stronger. Also, Sam, I'm not Lucifer. And even if I was, salt would hardly keep me out. Everything that you can deter with the salt line, you know how to kill. Get out of there.”

Sam hesitated.

”Fine,” Dean sighed and laid a hand on his shoulder, ”I'll check on Cas then.”

”He asked for a glass of water,” Sam said, his voice trembling.

”Good, I'll fill that for him once I get the stove fixed. Care for whiskey? I'm not sure if we have anything else here, unless you're into weed these days. And hell, I wouldn't know, maybe it would do you good. Seriously Sam, get out of there, I'll shoot any monsters I find for you, I can even check under the bed,” the older grimaced before turning around.  
He pushed the gun back into his pocket but this time, he didn't let go of it, and he kept his fingers in position for shooting. He wasn't offering up his back for free to the man that had every chance of not being his brother, especially not before he was certain that Castiel was still alive and not murdered in his bed.  
The small candle's flame picked up the movement in the air as Dean approached, dancing restlessly around its heart and casting shadows all over the place. The room was quiet and warm when Dean stopped by the bed's side and stood still watching Castiel. The angel looked better now despite the unkept beard that had grown thicker than it had ever been since the week they'd spent mainly running from croatoans after losing the base they'd briefly held had before reaching Chitaqua. That was over two years ago now, and the facial hair simply looked strange on Castiel's face now. To his relief, Dean could clearly see that the angel was breathing, the pace slow and steady. Dean laid his hand gently over the male's forehead to try his temperature. Judging by the film of light, cold sweat covering his skin, the fever was dropping again.

When he pulled up again, he took the red cup with him from the table, his fingers finally leaving the gun behind. He felt at ease now, if not still worried for Sam's sake, as the younger had clearly been scared out of his mind for no apparent reason at all. Perhaps that was to be expected. Dean didn't know what he'd been through.

Before leaving the bedroom behind, he took up the bottle of whiskey. Sam had finally stepped out of the salt zone, only by one foot but that was a major improvement nonetheless, and seemed to relax a little when Dean appeared back from the bedroom holding out the booze instead of the gun.  
”We need to find you something else to wear,” Dean noted, nodding at the dirty whites the taller was still in.

A shadow of a smile passed Sam's features. He opened the bottle and drank right out of it, wiped his mouth with he sleeve of the jacket and nodded with a grimace and then a chuckle.  
”Yeah, we really do,” he said and finally took the last step past the salt.

”Let me fix the stove and get Cas his cup of water, then we'll visit my cabin for some of your old stuff. I buried your bag somewhere under everything else I sort of wanted to just leave behind, thought I'd burn them, but now I'm glad I never got that far. We have nobody as big as you around so your choices otherwise would be those ugly wedding rags or your birthday suit.”  
He was glad to see the younger laugh at his poor attempt at a joke. The laughter was thin and soon exhausted, but it seemed to bring back some colour on the man's face, and that alone had been worth the shot.

Everything so far seemed to be against his theory of Sam not being Sam, but then again, Pet Cemetary had started out fine too.

*

Dean's cabin had progressively started smelling fresher with each visit he made to it, which seemed odd considering the dust was only gathering while nobody occupied it. In a sudden burst of inspiration the man opened the window to put an end to the stillness of the air once and for all. Then he moved to turn on the light above his unmade bed, illuminating the majority of the space they needed.  
”Up here,” he said, grabbing the ladder leading to the space he used for storing things nobody missed.  
He climbed up first and sat against the railing that secured the level's sudden edge. Sam followed him up – he was only wearing the white collared shirt over the white pants now, and Dean wasn't really sure at which point he'd ditched the dirty formal jacket. It wasn't down either when he peered from his current station.

The level was mostly filled with bags and boxes. Most of it had gathered there during his hunt for the Colt, plans and papers that he couldn't burn but didn't use anymore, but beyond all that were some of the things he'd carried all the way here from way back, things that had been in the Impala before the engine had died and he'd given up on the car.  
Getting past the rest took a couple minutes, especially since Sam sometimes stopped searching to inspect something he'd found. It reminded Dean about the fact his brother hadn't really been _there_ for years and was probably unaware of many of the things that had happened or were still going on out there somewhere.

”So... are we going to address it, ever?” Sam spoke suddenly when Dean was lifting a box from on top of another.  
  
A mosquito landed in Dean's hair. He wiped it off and listened to it circle around his head.  
”Address what?” he asked.

”The pack of elephants in the room.”

The older sighed. He dropped the last box on top of the middle one a little to the left from where he was digging, leaned back and turned to look at Sam.  
”Which one of them you'd want to call up first? You said it yourself. Talking solves nothing.”

Sam laid down the yellowed newspaper he'd held. He looked at Dean and even in the little light that reached up this far, he looked sad and beaten.  
”You act like we'd parted on good terms, Dean. And we didn't. I appreciate it, I appreciate that you don't hate me, and I certainly don't want to fight now, but I just can't ignore that when I last was myself, you didn't even pick up your damn phone when I called. For - how long it's been now? Four years, five years? We haven't talked, and I think that if I wasn't so glad to just be myself again, I'd join your hate club. I mean, I did - for a while. And I can't just pretend that never happened.”

Dean bit his lip and turned back to the piles of things he didn't need. Feverishly, he moved a trashbag full of clothes that weren't his but that he'd agreed to store on someone's behalf and pulled out a bag that looked familiar but turned out to be one of his own, avoiding the expecting silence.  
Finally he couldn't escape it anymore, not even when Sam had started searching again as well.  
”I've learned something, Sam,” he spoke, fingers bending around the strap of what they were looking for and gripping it like it was relic from paradise, ”I've learned that regret is useless.”

His brows knit closer. He pushed a hand under the cold bag and pulled it from between the boxes, landing it on his lap and examining it while seeing something entirely other than its shape. What he saw was a nameless motel room, some place he'd seen this bag on the floor of, and the taste of bacon sandwhich lingered in his mouth, prompting a response in his saliva production. He swallowed the excess rather annoyedly. He could hardly even remember what bacon tasted of anymore.

”So there are only two things I regret, really regret, and will never stop regretting,” he continued.  
Sam stopped moving, and from the silence, Dean knew he was staring at his back intensively, waiting.  
”The first is that I was too stupid to say yes to Michael.”

The words tasted bitter and felt dry and invasive in his mouth.

”The second is that I believed and let you think that it was best for us to be separate, that I didn't need you. That I wanted you to believe you were a burden and that I'd do better without you. That I chased you away.”

Absently, he opened the bag's zipper and touched the clothes inside. What he hadn't expected was the scent of the hygiene products Sam had used when they'd travelled together. Sam had left this bag in the Impala, it was the smaller of his two bags, the one he often had only used in emergencies, and he'd probably left it behind by accident as it had been in the foot space of the backseat when Dean had found it. The scent came with a flood of memories that felt like molten metal travelling down Dean's throat.

”I'll never forgive myself for either, Sammy. You were never a burden. I was.”

For the second time within the past 24 hours, Dean felt tears on his cheeks. He lowered his head and let them flow. They had none of the intensity of the ones he'd shed in the car earlier but at the same time, they were much heavier and it felt like with each one a part of him spilled out and died. The drops fell quietly on the clothes inside the bag, and when they fell, the hollow space inside Dean seemed to grow larger with an ache that grew like the cavity was spreading by acid burning away his flesh. Behind him, somewhere far away as if separated from him by a dreamlike space that stretched endlessly in the few feet that physically were between them, Sam moved, rustling something for a moment and then, by the sounds of his feet on the floor, seemed to stand up.

He crossed the distance to Dean and when Dean felt his hand on his shoulder as the younger sat on his knees next to him, the time between the tears that ran down his face decreased until it felt like his eyes were bleeding. His body seemed to have forgotten entirely how to connect the tears to other physical reactions, as in general, his eyes could well have been actually bleeding, since the rest of him seemed calm and normal.

Sam took his hand, wrestled his fingers from the fist he'd formed with them and planted something in his palm. Dean felt safe in the dark, even if it still wasn't dark enough to cover his tears he could at least pretend that they weren't there. Sam looked at him in a held-together manner. Right then he was the one of them who had control over the situation. Dean wished he had the equivalent of Sam's salt line to keep his own demons at bay. His movements felt dreamlike when he looked at his once more closed fist when Sam's hand lifted from around it, and he opened his hand slowly. It gave him another flashback to the night they'd sat on another motel room's couch – the mosquito was back and biting at his ear, but he didn't care.  
They'd only been children back then, but just like then, the brass amulet felt heavy in Dean's hand. The horned figure's closed eyes seemed to stare at him. He closed his fist on it again and swallowed with great difficulty, trying to gather his clouded thoughts.

”Where did you find it?” he asked.  
His voice was barely a gasp, the rest of it had died on the way out.

”It fell from between the newspaper,” Sam replied, speaking in a softer tone than usual.

Dean shivered.  
”I shouldn't have taken it off. I... I wish I was dead, Sam. I really wish I was dead.”  
He didn't resist when Sam hugged him. For some reason, this felt like precisely the thing he needed to keep breathing.

”I know,” Sam said, uncertain and stumbling on the words, ”but I'm glad you're not. I'm tired too.”

”Cross that bridge when we get there, right?”

To his own ears, Dean sounded like all life had abandoned him already, but there was a spark of something that resembled humour in the way he spoke the words. Tired, bitter irony, but it was still a tone, a spark of hope.  
  
”Yeah, that's pretty much what I was heading for.”  
  
A thousand unsaid things lingered in the silence between them. When the quiet around them had grown to become a noise unparalled by any Dean could remember, the morning's first bird chirped, and in two minutes, the world around them was alive again.

”I wish I knew how to say the things I keep repeating in my head, Dean,” Sam said, and Dean didn't know how much time had passed since the chorus of chirping had started, but he was still leaning his head onto his brother's shoulder, unwilling to budge.  
”If I'd known how before, we would have never ended up here. If I only had the words I need.”

An hour later, Dean crawled under the flimsy blanket covering the mattress on the floor by the end of Castiel's bed. The brazen amulet's weight settled on his chest like an anchor to a time that had long since become irrelevant. His body's heat mirrored from it, and somehow, that feeling gave him strength. He closed his eyes, mind full of questions and things he hadn't said.  
The last thought he had before falling asleep came with the passive awareness of Sam being still awake, and he wondered whether the younger's unspoken thoughts were any similar to the ones that kept summersaulting inside his head and scraping at the insides of his skull for a chance to be heard.


	8. A Guilty Conscience

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Dean had barely slept two hours before Chuck's routine morning visit. When he heard the man scraping by the door, he got up, his limb stiff and muscles aching. His neck was getting the very worst of it again, and when he tried to turn his head, the pain brought an unwilling grimace on his face. As he walked through the room to greet the prophet he considered just leaving the cabin with him and locking himself in his own hole for the day to sleep off the debts he'd gathered over the past days – he sure as hell would have needed it – but when the man greeted him and he replied with a yawn and a wave of his hand he recalled the worries he'd had the night before. It was much too early still to trust Sam, and on top of that, he'd need to take a look at Castiel's wound again. He had so much to do, so much that couldn't wait, that it was flooding over him like a river pushing through a broken dam. Any day now he'd end up falling asleep on his feet.

”You look like you've been drained by a vamp,” Chuck noted, handing him a rather heavy plastic bag.  
Dean glanced inside and counted enough canned foods for the coming week. While he leaned over to drop the bag on the counter next to the stove, Chuck returned to the door, closed it and returned to the cabin with another bag.  
”The last hygiene products we can spare for now. Which is what I need to talk about to you – I tried mentioning it earlier but turned out it wasn't you-you so I guess I need to mention it again. We're running out. Of course, this isn't nearly as big of an issue now as it was before you went and kamikazed, but I'd still consider it pressing.”

He jumped on the counter next to the foods and dropped the bag on the floor, eyes on Dean, who was much too tired to take crap from him. He was done with being judged – if everyone else could have done his job better than he had, then why the hell had they let him do it? Unless they had tried to help, they had no business judging his choices. That limited the pool of people who actually deserved to voice their opinion by a full zero, because when he really thought about it, everyone had tried to tell him he was screwing up big time. Realising this didn't exactly make him feel any better. Before he knew, his hands had escaped up to his temples and he was leaning onto the stove, rubbing his face in a desperate attempt at chasing away the ache from inside.  
Chuck shifted uncomfortably.  
”Dean?”

”Yes, yes. Let me think.”  
He wasn't thinking. Not really. He was screaming inside. His fingertips rubbed and rubbed until his skin started feeling numb and swollen, and when he stopped, he didn't lift his hands nor his head, simply staying in that same position as before. It was likely that he looked just as mentally unwell as he felt.  
”Once Cas' condition is better,” he started at last, his voice void of feeling and his mind ringing silence instead of scanning through what he was about to say, ”I'll lead a group to gather resources. Make accounts of what we need, we'll be driving an absolute maximum of two vans, manned by an absolute maximum of four people, including myself.”

”That's not much, are you sure you can -”  
  
”Chuck,” Dean grunted and straightened up again, his eyes burning with a dark sort of determination, ”We can't possibly afford more men. Which brings me to the second issue. We have resources to host more people than we currently have, due to my decision to sacrifice the rest for nothing. We also have a desperate need for more people. This is the most pressing issue we're facing. We lack human resources, so we need to find people. Work your magic. Find us people.”

Chuck opened his mouth to speak, but the voice that came out wasn't his. It didn't even come from his direction.  
  
”Are you going to sacrifice them, too?”

A cold stone fell to the pit of Deans stomach. He turned around, wishing he hadn't left his gun in the bedroom. Castiel leaned to the door's frame – he'd sneaked up there so quietly neither of them had noticed him.  
Even in the morning's cold light filtered by an uniform white spreading across the skies outside, his skintone seemed much healthier than the day before.

”As a matter of fact,” Dean replied, voice wavering with the threat of every emotion he was barely holding at bay, ”I was thinking I could for once do something right and not get them killed. I'm offering the hypotethical group of people the relative safety of the camp, basic training in arms, food and shelter in return for whatever they can do or find. We need normal people. I killed everyone who can do something around here. That's a mistake we're already paying for, with everyone still alive sharing the guard duty and stretching thin on absolutely everything else. Do you have a better idea? Last time I checked, you were voting for a bullet in the head. Are you still as useless, or did you accidentally come up with an actual _option_ that benefits someone else than you or your dick?”

Chuck gaped.  
Castiel's expression hadn't changed throughout any of the insults or projected hatred Dean had thrown at him, but when he finished, the angel did smile. It was a shallow mockery of a smile, covering up what was truly going on behind the eyes that seemed to pierce right through Dean into the shreds of his soul. Something about it made Dean regret the words he'd let out in a similar manner to regretting the shattering of a glass he'd purposefully thrown at the wall with all the strength he had.

”If you find a cute girl, you know where to send her,” Castiel said softly.  
His hand slipped off of the door's frame and he crossed the room without looking at them again, clearly wounded by the fact he couldn't storm out with more dignity due to the toll his injury had taken on him.

Dean turned his head away.  
”So, it seems Castiel is just fine. Schedule the trip for tomorrow or at the latest, the day after. Can we arm the camp for approximately seven hours, provided there are no surprises?”

Chuck hesitated.  
”I think we can do it tomorrow. I'll give you Jack and Adam, and Beatrice's doing really w-”

”I don't want any of Castiel's bitches, thanks.”

”-ell, so I'll keep her here, then, good to have someone who can handle a gun, eh? I, um, I don't know who'd be useful -”

The door closed with more force than it required, and the sound of the wind bells lingered after the echo of the slam had died down.  
”I'll take Sam,” Dean finally said, ”Someone needs to look after him.”

”Should I go after Castiel? He's still -”  
  
”No. Go make the preparations for tomorrow. And that's an order.”

After Chuck had left too, Dean felt like he was standing in a pool of slowly melting ice. He considered sleep, but he was so agitated that the very thought made him wish he could smash something, so he decided to make coffee first, then wake up Sam if he still hadn't woken up to all the commotion, and after that he'd head out to check on Impala instead.  
Hands trembling, he reached to fill up a pot with water from the container he'd filled in the night. He struggled to put in an even amount of grounded coffee and when it was done, he felt oddly accomplished, like he'd just crossed a canyon by balancing on a thin rope. When he turned around and started hiding the cans of food in the cupboards, his ears picked up the sounds of someone moving in the bedroom, and when the footsteps reached the doorway, he glanced around his shoulder to see Sam stopping in the middle of the room, looking rather confused and fresh from the bed without his shirt on.

”What happened to your tattoo?” Dean asked, laying down the can he'd held and turning to look again.  
Sam reached a hand up to his chest and laid his fingers on top of the tattoo, through which a large scar passed. He seemed surprised at the finding, as if he'd been unaware of it until that point.  
”I'm not sure,” he finally said, ”Good that demons are pretty much extinct, right?”

Dean frowned. Then he picked up the can again and moved it up on top of another, closing the cupboard after making sure everything was there.

”You probably heard all of that just now,” he said clearly, weighting each word carefully, his face turned towards the surface he leaned onto.  
The scent of the brewing coffee was starting to fill up the air.  
”I don't want you to comment on it. Any of it. Understand?”

Sam sat down on the green pillow again, crossed his legs and looked up at Dean. When Dean turned to face him, he seemed to be measuring him. It made Dean feel even worse than he'd felt before.  
”I know you're -”

”Not a word, Sam,” the older cut him off with a warning look.

”No, listen, Dean. I know you're under a lot of strain. I'm not going to comment on it. You seem to have enough people _advicing_ you already. I just want to ask you something.”  
  
”And that is?”  
  
”Can I help?”

Dean let out a deep sigh.  
”No,” he said immediately.  
Then he reconsidered.  
”Yes.”

*

The rain was back, although it moved over the area so slowly and apathetically that it was easy to ignore. Every now and then a small drop fell on Impala's once more clear windshield as Dean worked on cleaning the interior. He had wiped most trash and dirt off of the seats. Despite everything, the leather was still usable for the main part, and the bits that weren't could still be salvaged with proper equipment. That equipment Dean lacked, but once they'd head for the city, he'd only need to break into a shoe shop or some other store that had sold or used products for leather care. Getting the water out of the floors was the point where he almost fell into despair, but when he finally got to examine the damage the flooding had actually done, he could sigh in relief. There wasn't a bit in the car that was beyond help. Some parts were awful, but nothing was entirely hopeless, and he could pat himself on the back for that. Before all had gone to hell, he'd taken proper care of this car, and it showed. Even after being abandoned like that, there was still hope that he could get it up and running once more. What good would that do him, he didn't know, but he didn't care either. This was the only thing in his life that made sense, and that was all he cared for.  
He was kneeling behind the front seat when a shadow moved over the windows and someone laid a hand on top of the car in a gentle manner like caressing a very dear sick horse. Dean's ears turned towards that sound and he assumed Sam had finished with gathering the things he'd asked from him. When he sat up again and opened his mouth to ask for a flashlight, the voice in his throat died before coming out as he recognised the clothing pressed against the car's window.

He hadn't expected Castiel to come anywhere near him anytime soon.

It probably meant that he would need to take a break either way. Continuing working like he hadn't noticed was too childish, even for him.  
He climbed over the seat's backrest, landed on his side and poked his head out. Castiel looked at him curiously.

”I would have never guessed,” he said voice full of quiet awe, ”that you were working on her. When I heard the sounds, I thought you were taking her apart.”

Dean took a firm grip of the door's frame and pulled himself out of the car. His shoes landed first against the car's bottom and from there the ground, and as he straightened his back to stand next to Castiel, he felt refreshed again. It had everything to do with fixing the car – the effect on him seemed like he wasn't fixing just the Impala but also himself.  
”Didn't even cross my mind,” he stated truthfully, ”No matter what happens with the world, my baby won't end up in spare parts.”

Castiel nodded and grunted approvingly. He was standing a little bent and his breathing was heavy – the wound must have been giving him hell.  
”You'd rather let her rust and fall apart in one piece than use her for anything. In a sense, I can understand that.”  
He fell silent for a moment and Dean didn't know what to say in return. A raindrop fell on the tip of his nose and made him blink involuntarily. He was so tired that opening his eyes after that was hard, and so was focusing his sight on anything.  
”I noticed you're wearing the amulet again.”

Dean nodded. His fingers sought out the brass figure on his chest and touched it, gripped it, rolled it around and then let it fall down again. He'd forgotten how impractical it was – over the course of the two hours he'd spent with the car, he'd already hit himself once in the face with it. It was so heavy that having it fall on his lips felt like a stone being thrown at them, and had almost equal chances of breaking the thin skin against his teeth when it hit. He couldn't remember how many fights had ended with him bleeding on the floor not because he'd been hit by an enemy but because he'd flung the amulet at his own face by accident. It was nearly impossible to avoid when he fell or was thrown, and especially if he happened to roll, he was always bruised on the face somewhere.  
Perhaps that was the amulet's core purpose. Each thing he'd done wrong in his life, the amulet would sooner or later bruise him for.

”Yeah,” he mumbled and picked it up again, bringing it forwards so that he could take a good look on it.  
Castiel looked at it as well, his expression unreadable.  
”Sam found it when we were digging up the old clothes I found from the car when the engine died back in the day. Apparently it fell out from between an old newspaper. I don't remember where I put it after deciding I'd never wear it again. Not between that paper, though.”

”I'm sorry for what I said earlier, Dean.”

”I – what?”  
Dean blinked and turned his eyes to Castiel.  
”You're s-... who are you?”

Castiel raised a brow, then leaned further back making the car swing passively behind them.  
”What I said wasn't fair to you. You've done a lot for me after what happened and it's not a secret that it's only because you feel guilty for what you did. I'm well aware I'm not your favourite soldier around here.”  
There was a deep regretful tone in his voice that seemed to resonate with something inside Dean. He ignored the feeling, being too tired to understand it properly.  
”What I'm trying to say is that this morning was a mistake on my part. I dealt a low blow you didn't deserve, especially after treating me the way you've been treating me recently. Even if it's not because you truly care for me, it's still more than I've expected of you, and perhaps all of that together with the younger you's visit has made me sentimental. Sentimental about the things we used to share back when you still considered me a friend and I was more than the useless, broken creature I am now.”

Dean wasn't sure he was hearing the things right, but from the way Castiel looked, he knew he'd gotten it right. The older was visibly hurting – he had tears in his eyes, even if none fell out, and his expression was strained. His whole body was tense in a manner that had little to do with his injury; in fact, as Dean looked down, he realised that Castiel was straining his muscles in a manner that must have caused agonizing pain, and yet the angel couldn't relax.  
It had been a long while since anyone had apologised to him like that, taking blame for things that were hardly their fault to begin with - or perhaps it had only been a long while since he'd really listened. Every cell in his body screamed for him to tell Castiel it had been Dean's own fault, all of it, but he was too proud to admit he'd done anything wrong.  
Instead, he laid his hand on the male's shoulder and gripped it tight for just a second before letting go again.  
”You should go back in,” he said in a voice that merely resembled carelessness, ”I'll find Sam and then, you know, I really need some sleep, so I'll come see you next.”

Castiel nodded.  
”Can I ask you for something?”

Dean tilted his head passingly.  
”Anything.”

”Find those painkillers Chuck is holding onto. This pain is making me even more miserable than I usually am.”

Dean eyed him unimpressedly.  
”I wish I could say you deserve the pain for walking out earlier. You're nowhere near fit for going out, much less _staying_ out: in case you've forgotten, you're not invincible anymore. But alright – I think you've learned your lesson, and most of all, I wouldn't have stayed with me either, so I can't blame you.”

”You're an insufferable asshole, Dean. The things you say.”  
There was no sign of joking in the older's tone as he spoke, and his eyes were dead serious about it as well. Dean smiled, he couldn't help but recognise himself from the blame.

”We'll drink to that later,” he replied.

”You'd better remember that.”

Dean wasn't sure which – that he was an asshole or that he owed Castiel a drink. In the end, it didn't matter. He wouldn't forget either.


	9. Cry for Mercy (in the City of the Damned)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Wine and roses ain't quite over_   
>  _Fate deals a losing hand_   
>  _And I said: 'Didn't mean to - did not mean to fail'_   
>  _You didn't plan it, you over-ran it."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, time to meet the rest of the team. Summary and title from Led Zeppelin's "For Your Life".

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

He bumped into Sam midway past his own cabin.  
"Hey," the younger greeted him surprisedly, "Did I take too long?"

"Kind of," Dean replied, smirking dismissively, "Nah, I'm just too tired to go on today. What all did you find?"

"I just left them by the shed, actually. I found the gears and everything just fine, and the cutters you asked for. The oil's running out, but there's enough for Impala, at least I'd think so - just mentioning it, since Chuck told me we're heading out tomorrow, and I won't remember that, I promise. So then there's a new overused towel and an old tooth brush in a rusty metal bucket. The only thing I didn't find is the spray paint, actually, the rest are in there when you'll need them."

Dean blinked surprisedly. He grabbed Sam's shoulder and smiled.  
"You're awesome," he said, his voice full of awed disbelief, "Thanks, Sam."

Sam shrugged and smiled embarrassedly. He clearly didn't know how to take the compliment, but it was true that Dean hadn't expected him to find much of anything. Even Chuck had little idea these days _where_ everything was, even if he knew approximately _what_ they had in an overall sense. Each of them had taken care of their own things, what they needed and where they could find them. Dean hadn't been in touch with most of the car repairing tools in years now. Losing Impala had been like the killing blow to his interest in cars and he'd only repaired what little nobody else had the time for.

"Now I just need something to fix the engine with. That, or a new engine, but I really don't think..."  
He fell quiet and looked into the forest behind them, his hand slipping off of Sam's shoulder. Then he sighed and a worn smile returned upon his lips.  
"Anyway, you did great. I'll head over to bother Chuck for something and then I'm going to bed. Amuse yourself, get to know people, try not to mention you're Sam, and don't get shot. Nobody's actually seen you, so they don't know unless you tell them. So don't. We clear?"

"Quite," Sam sighed. He pushed his hands down his pockets and grimaced.  
"So I'm, what, a distant cousin named Ben?"

"No, you're an old mate of mine, a hunter, named Samuel. Introduce yourself as Samuel and ask them to call you Sam. That way we can say we didn't exactly lie when we know what the hell's going on and maybe tell them the full truth," Dean figured with a shrug.  
He didn't have a better option.  
"So you didn't run into any of them yet?"

Sam shook his head.  
"I ran into someone - a tall black guy with an axe - and avoided the axe by asking him where Chuck was, because 'he told me I needed to come in for a background check'. I honestly thought they all knew what I looked like, but since he let me explain myself before gutting me, I figured I needed an excuse to get out really fast."

"That was Adam. And good. Did you go to Chuck's?"  
  
"Well, I did knock on his door. Nobody home, so I hid in the shed and started digging on my own," Sam huffed.  
He brushed his hair behind his ears and shifted weight from one foot to another. The rain was starting to get serious.

"Damn. Did you check the main cabin? The largest one, with the common room? In the middle?"

Sam shook his head.  
"There were people inside and, well."

"Okay. I'll head there first, go enjoy your new identity somewhere busy. I trust you not to screw up, and you really look like you could use some company. Speaking of which, I'm sure Cas would let you borrow his girls. They're... how did he put it? 'Free-spirited and independent', which is the long way to say that they really like sex."  
Dean found himself grimacing at his own words. He tried to recall when exactly he'd become so aversed to the thought of easily available sex. He realised it had probably happened around the same time that easily available sex had started hanging out with Castiel too much.  
Not to say he was all about projects these days either, but at least he liked thinking he had done something to get to the horizontal point in a relationship, even if it meant he only had to lie and cheat his way there.  
What a despicable thing he'd become.  
He grinded the tip of his shoe into the ground below and imagined himself getting crushed like that. It didn't make him feel any better.  
"Thanks, but I think I'll pass on that," Sam chuckled awkwardly, "Though I think getting to know the people would... well, at least they won't try to shoot me, right?"

"Right," Dean agreed.  
Then he realised that the odds of Sam getting shot would decrease significantly if he accompanied the man into the main cabin, which just so happened to be the exact direction he was headed for next.  
"So let's do it this way - I'll introduce you to them. Chuck's probably with them and I need Chuck, so we might as well get it over and done with without any unnecessary gunfire. C'mon."

They started crossing the area, at first in a hasteless pace but picking it up the more the rain caught up with them. It was threatening to become a proper downpour again when they charged the remaining few feet up to the cabin's door. Dean reached it first and pulled it open without forming a plan - if he'd act natural, he could probably take anything.  
The first thing that struck him was the fact that he'd just gotten a crapload of good people killed for no reason, failed the big plan, and disappeared afterwards. He swallowed thickly and pulled on his poker face, as if he didn't give a flying fuck about any of that.  
They'd been good people.  
Friends of the survivors.  
Friends of _his_.  
Loyal people.

Good people.

Sam stepped inside after him, and Dean felt relieved when the attention changed to him instead.

"Who the hell's that?" Jack asked, pointing.  
Chuck was there, and he looked shocked at the sight of the two of them.

"Samuel," Dean replied casually, sitting on the end of the table instead of on the chairs to keep up his position and to remind himself that he, in fact, did have control here, no matter how bad leader he'd turned out to be.  
'Bad' was an understatement, but it didn't take away his power. He had a gun.  
Not _here_ , though.  
Somewhere else.

He hoped the same went for everyone else, because suddenly, they didn't appear all that much like sheep to him anymore.  
"Samuel's a friend from way back. Used to hunt with him a bit. He's good with guns and knows how to survive."

Sam raised a hand.

"He'll insist for you to call him 'Sam', but if you do so in my presence, I'm surely going to blow off your damned heads, and you know why. So don't make that mistake. I won't tell you twice."  
Dean raised his head a little and glared at everyone in turn. They settled back in their chairs. He'd won. No questions asked.  
That was a bad sign. The only times he didn't ask questions about failed plans and dead people were the times he was planning to shoot first.

"And, um, Chuck - can I have a moment?"

Lotus rose up. Dean didn't pay attention to her before she addressed him - again, because he entirely missed the first time. Chuck, who had been getting up, sat back down looking positively afraid. The woman brushed her long-fingered hand through her short hair and cast a piercing look at him, and Dean wasn't entirely sure was that supposed to be more threatening than it was erotic.  
Then she casually pulled out a gun at him and the look turned indefinitely more threatening.

"Whoa - wow, wow, put that down. I don't think you know how it works," he said, raising a hand in front of him and pressing the other against Sam's chest before he decided to step up, run across the room and disarm the woman.  
That wouldn't have been all that good choice for the first impression.

"Care to find out?" Lotus snapped and with a single, practiced movement made the gun ready for fighting.  
The men and Vera, who was also stationed by the backwall, looked at the situation going on curiously but passively, as if nobody truly cared where it was headed for.  
Sam pushed Dean's hand aside and stepped next to him and the table.

"You're not shooting him," he said calmly, "For a couple reasons. The first being, we don't need this now. The second is that if you do, he can probably dodge before you hit the trigger. The third is that if you'd somehow manage to kill him, you'd have me to answer for it, because I have no allegiance to anyone but him in this room, and I don't doubt for a minute I could disarm you all before anyone could get a shot at me."

Dean turned to look at Sam and formed his name voicelessly on his lips, hoping he'd get the hint and step back. Sam shook his head and looked back at Lotus.

"I really want to like you," the younger spoke again, and Lotus aimed the gun at him instead.  
Now it was Sam's turn to press a hand on Dean's chest. Dean hadn't even noticed he'd moved, but as had always been before, it seemed that when someone threatened Sam, he got serious.  
"I really do. The thing is, I know what happened."

The silence was ringing. Lotus lowered the gun a little, her confidence wavering.

"You - you know?" Dean repeated, gaping at his brother.

Sam nodded. He turned his eyes to Dean again and smiled sadly.  
"I know," he said, his voice as calm as ever, "because I was there. I saw it happen. You out of all people should know that, Dean, because you saw me as well."  
He turned to the rest of them again and smiled.  
"Put the gun down and we'll talk about this. Hell, I don't even care if you all want to skin Dean alive right now. I've only been here for a little while, most of it unconscious, and I didn't know any of the people he wasted for nothing, but even _I_ do want to skin him alive for doing it."

"Sam."

"Shut it, Dean. You owe them the truth."  
Sam's eyes were entirely honest and their look sharp and pressuring when he looked at Dean once more and the silence fell upon them again.  
Lotus sighed and pushed the gun back to its holster. Someone grunted disappointedly, but didn't raise up to shoot him for her. She, on the other hand, stayed up. Her worn boots made a rubbery sound as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, the soles rubbing against the dusty floor. Chuck seemed to finally dare to breathe again, but he looked terrified still, and Dean knew why. Out of all those present, Chuck was the one who coped worst with violence and bloodshed. He'd accompanied the second group for tactical reasons only and he had never been supposed to end up in a situation where a fight was inevitable, and Dean wasn't sure if he'd actually ever shot anyone in his life. He was willing to bet he hadn't, no matter how much he'd argue otherwise.

"May I speak for us?" Lotus finally asked when nothing else was happening.

"Go for it," Adam grunted in his low, rough and usually threatening voice.  
Dean's brain played out a scene with him and the axe and Sam. He decided it was a situation he didn't want to get in.  
"Ain't got nothin' against it, m'self," Thomas noted.  
He usually said nothing, but when he did, nobody understood him.

"Me and the rest of us here were just thinking about you when you entered the room with your friend here. In case someone missed it, we just got a bigger issue, which I'll go on and address first. You just called him Sam yourself. He's the right age. You couldn't have, could you?" Lotus spoke.  
She was even _walking_ on that fine line between threatening and erotic, her movements giving Dean shivers either way.  
Sam sighed.

"Don't think we're stupid, Dean. We only waltz the way you want us to because at first, you got it right. You don't anymore. So as he said, whoever the fuck he is, give us the truth."  
  
"I didn't know you were sexy like that, Lotus. Can I change my opinion on you before you shoot me in the head?" Dean asked and smiled cutely, knowing he was screwed.  
It made him feel awkward and insecure and surprisingly vulnerable.

"Shut up, sweetie, or I'll fuck you raw in the mouth with the gun I just decided _not_ to shoot you with a moment ago, in case you missed that, asshole."  
Dean heard Sam let out a strained breath that might have been a hastily murdered chuckle. He didn't dare to glance at the man however, not with Lotus keeping up a very demanding eye contact with him, one he really wished she would break before he'd be forced to do it first.  
He was nearing the breaking point where he'd stop being able to take it, and at that point, he wasn't sure who would die first. The jokes were wearing thin and they were his only defense to the crushing guilt that was driving him insane in secret.  
Nobody but Sam had seen through that. Sam had kept his thoughts to himself because he knew what Dean felt, and Dean knew it now. He didn't know if he was thankful or not. He did his darnest to not let the pain show through.

"The truth is a little crazy," he said quietly, but everyone was still concentrated on them and his words were like a thunder's roar in the resulting electrified silence, "and it won't be enough for you. But Sam can back me up on the little I know. He hates me about as much as you do, so you have no reason to doubt his word. Yesterday, I was going on about my own business avoiding you lot and enjoying what life I have left before I'm blowing my brains onto the wall, and I will, I promise, soon enough - when Chuck came to me and took me to the back gate."

"You were there?" Lotus threw her head back towards Chuck.

"Mm, yes, I was there. I thought he should come, be the one..."  
  
"... to shoot Sam, yeah, that was the gist of it alright," Dean finished to sentence, "But since it was Sam, I didn't. I've killed enough people, I can't do it anymore, and I especially cannot do it to Sam."

"You should have," Sam said quietly, and Dean forgot the threatening look Lotus was giving him to turn and look at his brother instead.  
Sam smiled sadly.

"Don't talk to me like that. No, Sam, I wouldn't have done it."  
  
" _So fucking what_ ," Lotus interfered, "Where's Lucifer? How deep in this shit are we simply because he's here, and should I shoot him now?"  
  
"If you so much as pull that fucking gun on him again, I'll kill you before you see what's coming to you, bitch," Dean spat out and found himself from his feet again, hand reaching for the gun that he didn't have and quitting halfway, replanning a dive for the knife resting against his ankle in case he'd need a weapon in unexpected circumstances.

"Dean, stop," Sam sighed, "She's absolutely right. Nothing you say can make a difference here, not for the better anyway. I'm a threat to all of you."

"So what? So is everyone else, Lucifer can invade _any_ of us at any given moment, Sam. We all have our reasons to say yes. Can he just waltz back into you like that without ever notifying you first? Even Cas couldn't just jump right back in when he'd once left. No, Sam, I'm not letting _anyone_ shoot you just because he wore you once. He doesn't anymore. Castiel proved it - Lucifer's not with Sam. He's not here. Sam is the best weapon we have against him, or rather, from him. Sam's his Death Star. Without Sam he can't do anything, and any other vessel he could pick up will burn from the inside out sooner or later. And you'd never say yes again."

"I wouldn't?"  
  
Dean wanted to hit the man, but instead, he raised his head a little and looked him in the eye with all the confidence that had ever resided inside him, and with that, he crushed the doubt that would overpower his faith the exact moment the words would leave his mouth.  
"You would never say yes again," he repeated calmly, and then his faith was overcome with fear.  
Sam's eyes watered and he looked away, expression unreadable.

Lotus hesitated again, but this time Adam rose up.  
He was a large man, but not quite as tall as Sam was. Somehow, Dean felt comforted by that thought. Even with all his training, he still saw it very likely that he'd lose to Adam in a fight simply because he was so much bigger than Dean was.  
"The only way we can be sure is by icing him, Winchester."

"To hell with this talk of killing Sam. He's my godsforsaken _brother_ , has none of you ever had family?" Dean launched back at him in disbelief.

"Actually, yes," Vera said, smiling as she stood up and walked to the opposite end of the table, "I had a sister. And you killed her."

"Well I'm sorry!"  
A ringing silence followed.  
Dean swallowed thickly. In all truth, he wanted to hide, especially after that failed attempt at a comeback that he now simply couldn't swallow back in. All that anger inside him was bubbling over, and he wanted to pull out the knife and cut his own throat with it. At least it'd make for one more dramatic pause. He lowered his gaze back to the table and shivered. Sam laid a hand on his shoulder.

"You're - wait, what did you say? Sorry, was it?"  
Vera laughed. Then she started crying.  
"YOU BEING _SORRY_ WILL NOT BRING HER BACK."

Dean didn't know what was happening, but within the next two seconds, Sam had disappeared somewhere and Vera had shrieked as the man landed on her and threw her back against the wall.  
"STAY BACK," someone shouted, and as Dean raised his confused eyes back at the scenery ahead, Sam was holding the gun from the cylinder and down at the ground with one hand over Vera's shoulder against the wall, "Nobody shoots anyone before we've talked things through. I'm not the only damned topic you wanted to talk about, and if you're going to start shooting here, we'll all end up dead. Every last one of us, except - Chuck, come out of there."

"I _won't_ ," Chuck growled, "Not until everyone's disarmed and swears to not kill anyone."  
He had taken a dive under the table and still held his hands over his ears, but even through all that he looked more annoyed than afraid.

Vera was still crying. To Dean's surprise, Sam reached to hand the gun back to Lotus and turned to Vera instead, his palm over her head and speaking something so quietly it only reached the ears of the two women closest to him. In a moment, Vera was on her kneels on the floor gripping the hem of his shirt, and Sam looked like he had no idea what to do next.  
Lotus was so taken aback by what was going on behind them that she kept gripping the gun in the weird position that Sam had passed it onto her, except that now it was also upside down so that the hammer was against her palm and the trigger and the handle pointed at the back wall.

"No, he's right. I'd also rather not see Dean get shot," Adam noted and sat back down.  
He laughed a breathless laughter and rubbed at his shoulder that had been shot at by a group of outsiders a year earlier. The old wound still gave him hell sometimes. He turned his dark eyes to Dean and measured him.  
"If you are so sure about your brother, perhaps we can give him the chance. Chuck mentioned we're going on a trip tomorrow. I assume you intend to bring him with us."

"That was the plan," Dean said bluntly with a nod.

"Then we'll see, won't we. Now, as to this unfortunate business with out friends. If you'd be so kind as to sit on your ass before you start getting on my nerves again," the black man growled and pointed at the empty chair pushed aside from the table briefly with his whole right hand.  
Sam looked at Dean as he sat down and crossed his arms around the knee he brought up to his chest. The older didn't look back at him but at the people around the table instead.  
"It was one of the worst mistakes of my life," he stated wornly, "and I deserve the blame."  
There it was. He hadn't broken. He'd fallen back to honesty.

"And what of your clone?"

He shrugged.  
"I've got no idea."


	10. The Lamb and the Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _"This is a gift, it comes with a price_   
>  _Who is the lamb and who is the knife?_   
>  _Midas is king and he holds me so tight_   
>  _And turns me to gold in the sunlight.”_   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we're finally here. Have fun.  
> Chapter name derived from the more than fitting song from Florence and the Machine, [Rabbit Heart (Raise it up)](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AOFphfKZfr4).

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Dean stumbled back to Castiel's cabin, grasping the bottle of painkillers he'd just remembered before throwing himself out the door. He could barely see anything from the rain, wind and the barrier his emotions had created between him and his sense of reality, and at first his steps lead him to his own cabin's door. He stood there, stupidly, battered by the ice cold rain, wondering what was the purpose of him being there, finally realising he was half across the camp site from the place he wanted to be in.

The wind bells chimed welcomingly when he climbed the steps up to the porch and in to the incense-filled warmth of the angel's residence. He didn't get his shoes off before he fell on the floor. He just couldn't hold it in anymore.  
"Stay away," he commanded in a breaking voice when he heard movement from the main room, "Stay away or I swear I will kill you."

But of course Castiel didn't listen. Instead, he kneeled in front of him and brought his arms around him, and Dean attempted to push him off before he realised struggling now could seriously harm the angel due to the wound that had been barely holding together the last he'd seen it. His hands fell down and so did the bottle of pills, and it rolled on the floor until it hit the wall with a knock and stopped there. So much for killing anyone for the crime of empathy.  
His body shook but he wasn't crying, he was only trembling and gasping for air like his lungs had forgotten how to function. Whatever little had held him together was gone now, and it was gone for good. He wasn't the man he'd been the morning before, and he was nothing like the man who had left to kill Lucifer mere days earlier. And just like he wasn't that man, he wasn't the man who had visited them from the past either. He was a stranger: a weak, broken stranger who had nothing to live for anymore.  
"You're wrong," Castiel said quietly.

Dean's body jerked, then trembled again and he gagged, feeling like he truly wasn't able to breathe anymore.  
  
"Whatever it is you think of yourself now, you're wrong."

He grabbed the angel's shirt and pulled him closer, brushed his face against his chest and breathed in his scent, a scent he didn't know.  
"What do I do now?" he asked barely audibly, shaking so much it made his speech hard to understand.

"Now?" Castiel repeated and brought his hand into Dean's wet hair, "Just now, you get up from my floor..."  
He helped Dean stand up, and Dean felt him tensing up from the pain that repeatedly flashed through his body as he moved, but he didn't in a single other way show that he was hurting or that Dean was an unwelcome burden on his shoulders. When they were standing up, he even brushed the short hair sticking to the younger's forehead off and brought his arm around Dean so that he wouldn't fall again.  
  
"Next, one step at a time wherever I bring you."  
Dean fastened his grip of Castiel's shoulder. He still only saw little to nothing, somehow his eyes wouldn't focus properly. He felt dizzy and weak.  
Step after step after step. They crossed the room. Through the rain's sounds, Dean's ears picked up the wind bells again, brushing against one another and letting out ethereal sounds.  
Step after step after step after step until his vision picked up the edge of the bed. Castiel's hands brought him down by the shoulders until he was sitting on the red covers, staring at the room ahead blindly.  
"Then I'm going to put on just one candle. We need to see each other. Is Sam coming?"

"Sam's not coming," Dean replied slowly, "Chuck wanted him to stay. Said it'd help them trust him. Even if they..."

Castiel's hand was on his shoulder again, even when the male himself was looking in the opposite direction and holding a lit match that he was confidently carrying up to one of the thick yellow dwarf candles that were slowly sinking deeper and deeper down and leaking all over the silver platters beneath.  
The flame touched the heart and it caught fire. The angel breathed against the flame on the match and it wavered and died.  
"Even if they don't trust you," he finished the sentence for him quietly, "Chuck is surprisingly wise once you get under his skin. Now, Dean."

He returned in front of Dean and, with the hand that had stayed on his shoulder, turned his face up so that they were looking at each other.  
"Now I'm going to make you tea, and you will not argue about it. Meanwhile, you'll sit here. That's all you need to do. Don't think, just sit here and breathe. It's not easy, I know, but you have to do it."  
  
Once his fingers lifted from under Dean's chin, the younger hid his face into his hands and leaned over until his elbows dug into his knees and he could just stay there. He listened to Castiel moving through the cabin and his brain seemed to pulse with all the things that tried to fight their way to his consciousness at the same time, and he was nauseous again, wishing he could just force himself to throw up - and he could, if only he was outside, or even in his own cabin, somewhere nobody would see. It could make him feel better. Drinking _would_ make him feel better. If he'd get smashed, walk in the forest and pass out and wake up as a croatoan zombie, he'd feel much better than he did now. Then he could follow his memories back to the camp and get shot and maybe someone would mourn his loss.

Even more than that, however, he noticed he wanted to stay. He felt so welcome here, despite all his faults and everything he'd done. The old Castiel, the angel Castiel, would have given him hell for what he was now, but the Castiel now was making him tea and behaving like he was still worth the effort.

"Cas?" he called out.

"I told you not to think, Dean."

"Would you, for one second, miss me if I died tonight?"  
Dean's body ached as he concentrated on listening to the answer. His ears strained until they felt sore from the sounds of the rain and the music of the wind bells and the sounds the pot made as Castiel filled it with water and laid it on the stove and left it there to heat up. He sounded calm as he went about, and the impression only broke once as he gasped in pain, walking back to the door to pick up the painkillers Dean had left there. Then he returned to his steady pace again, laid the bottle on some hard surface and dug out something out of a rustling package. From the sounds that followed, Dean suspected it had been another incense. The scent was heavy in the air, so he must have burned quite a few already. Perhaps the air had been too fresh for him after the smell of weed had mostly lifted from it, or maybe it was just that what Castiel was trying to chase out with stronger scents, perhaps to avoid temptation.

He wasn't going to answer.  
In Dean's mind, that was like a death sentence to the hope that had resided inside him, and it died with a burning pain about his heart that fluttered about in agitation. His breathing was heavy and fast as he tried his best to drown the ache in something else, anything, but his mind was finally empty of thought and seemed to echo with screams that sounded like those of his own.  
Time passed with no ticking and no sign of moving along at all. It could have been an hour or it could have been ten minutes before Dean heard Castiel return to him.

"How do you feel?" the angel asked him warmly, taking his left hand off of his face and pressing the warming cup of tea into his palm.  
Passively, his fingers bent around it and held it. Then his right hand fell off of his face as well, but he kept staring at the floor past his knees and the cup that now rested in between them.

"Hollow," he heard himself say.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

Dean hesitated. He brought the cup towards his face and smelled the bitter smell of the green tea in it. He couldn't remember ever actually drinking anything like that. A long time ago he'd tried some bagged tea for a girl and he'd hated it, and something told him he was going to hate this equally much, but for the sake of it, he'd make it through. If for nothing else then to punish himself.  
As he was thinking about the smell of the drink he held he was speaking, explaining, incoherently and nonsensically at times and often quitting mid-sentence and returning or forwarding to something else entirely, but Castiel didn't cut him off once. He let Dean speak until the younger didn't remember what he'd left unsaid, and only then he asked him questions.  
He wanted to know about Sam's reactions as well as how Dean had felt about certain accusations thrown at him, but it never became clear to Dean why he paid attention to those. When Castiel seemed to have ran out of questions, Dean noticed he'd already drank most of his tea, leaving only the thicker liquid on the bottom where the escaped bits and pieces of the dried green things still swam around. He watched them absently and wondered what on earth were they, and consequently, what had he just swallowed. The taste hadn't been so bad after all. Not good for sure but it had had an effect on him, as he wasn't feeling so anxious and torn anymore. Part of that was probably because Castiel knew how to talk to him - he never pressed him on too far.

The door opened, and for a moment, the sound of the rain turned louder. Neither Castiel nor Dean stood up, but they both raised their eyes to see Sam, who had carried a coat around his shoulders. The younger brother saw immediately that he'd arrived at a bad time and seemed to be at loss for words. Then he chuckled quietly.  
"I was coming in just to let you know I'll be staying quite late," he said, "They've calmed down now but there's so much to catch up on. They also have beer, so..."

"Sam," Dean muttered.  
Sam tilted his head. He seemed unsure if Dean had actually called his name, but stood and waited in case he had. Dean licked his dry-feeling lips and looked down.

"If you want to, you can pick a cabin. You're one of them now. You are allowed to stay."

"Dean, about that -"

"No, Sammy, nothing about it. Not tonight. I've nothing to say to it and I'm finished. I'm done. I just want to sit here until the world ends for good."  
He looked up briefly and shook his head. Only now he noticed that Castiel actually had a cup of his own - he'd avoided looking at the angel so decisively that he'd entirely missed the fact that he was drinking the same green poison he'd served him. And yet, he still wasn't looking, he only _saw_ as he looked straight at Sam.  
With a heavy sigh, he placed the cup down on the floor and cracked his knuckles.  
"We'll talk about it tomorrow. Seriously, though, if they have a place to spare, you should take it. You don't need me breathing down your neck."  
  
"And you?"

Dean shrugged. He felt Castiel watching him rather keenly, like the other's stare was rubbing against his spine. It raised the fine hair on his neck up.  
"I guess I'll just sleep here tonight. I mean, someone has to look after Cas, and since Chuck's busy with the ladies, it's got to be me, at least until they command me to pack my things and leave."

Sam watched him for a moment before turning his eyes down.  
"We'll see tomorrow by sunrise, then."

"Yeah," Dean said and he couldn't for the love of it find anything else to add.

Sam said a baffled good night to Castiel, who raised a hand and smiled at him in return. They watched him disappear behind the corner and heard him closing the door.  
Something in the mood had changed. Something between _them_ had changed. It was unspoken, but the air between them was sparkling with an odd tension that made Dean fear moving an inch to any direction or otherwise risk acknowledging it existed. Ironically, the very manner he avoided doing anything added to the very feeling that was making him uncomfortable.  
Castiel turned to look at him. He was still smiling, although the smile had turned from the friendly goodbye to something softer and warmer.  
"You asked me a question earlier," he returned to their private discussion quite effortlessly, "Would you still like an answer to it?"

Dean pushed the cup on the floor under the bed with his foot. It took him a while to notice that Castiel was holding out his cup, and Dean took it uncertainly, not quite knowing what to do with it. Slowly, he put it down on the floor as well and then, when Castiel seemed satisfied with his actions, pushed it against his own cup under the bed. The clear sound the colliding porcelain made in contact to one another seemed like a wrong chord in the middle of a beautiful song when compared to the sounds of the wind bells still occasionally reaching inside through the walls.  
This was a question he hadn't expected. Slowly, he nodded in response.  
  
"Yes. An honest one," he said slowly, even though he didn't for a single moment doubt the honesty of the older's initial response.  
  
Perhaps he simply had to make sure so that he would be able to believe it after it had been said, and that no doubt would follow him around when he would recall the moment.  
And he would - no matter what answer Castiel would give him, he _would_ recall the moment, and he would do it often.

The angel leaned back a little, placing both his hands behind him for support. He raised his face towards the ceiling and for a moment seemed to be lost in the sounds surrounding them. The single candle's light barely illuminated his features more than the night's dim lights illuminated his back. Dean heard his own heart beating in the silence. The more he paid attention to it, the louder its sound became. Then it seemed to skip a beat when Castiel unexpectedly turned towards him.  
"If it came to that, I wouldn't miss you for one second," the angel said, but before Dean could even feel hurt, he lifted his hand between them to show he wasn't finished yet, "The moment I would know, I would come right after you."

The way he spoke was too complicated for Dean.  
He simply refused to understand.  
"Come after me where?" he asked defiantly.

"Death. I don't care where it'd land me. Without hesitation, I would put a bullet through my brain."  
Castiel licked his dry lower lip and raised his eyes back to the ceiling. He let out a soft huff.  
"Sam, of course, complicates things a little. I would need to make sure he was alright. You would have done the same, but I'd imagine losing you would have left him in a very vulnerable state, so I would need to throughoutly consider my timing. Perhaps I'd leave first, make sure he'd never know about the rest. But nothing in this broken world would make me stay, Dean. You are my one and only reason to stick to this miserable existence."

Now he couldn't deny understanding the words, but understanding the reasoning behind them was a whole another matter. That he didn't understand. His mind simply couldn't work a single reason to why Castiel would consider him that important. For a long while now, he'd believed they disliked one another quite equally, and that every kindness shared between the two of them was either out of habit or convenience. The past few days had made him doubt his conclusion, and this confession had just turned his whole life upside down. He didn't know what to say.  
The silence stretched, and finally Castiel let out an equally amused and frustrated sound, throwing his head back and grinning a grin that perfectly matched the sound he'd made.

"You still don't get it, do you?" he let out, nearly moaning the words, and when he looked at Dean, his eyes had a feverish spark in them that had absolutely nothing to do with his body temperature.  
The shine in them was both terrified and excited.  
"Dean, I can't believe you. All these years I've tried and tried and tried and you just do not get it, you don't even begin to grasp it. I don't understand how you still function - how can you not understand, when I'm not even hiding it?"

He brought his hand through his hair and let out a small, scared laugh. Dean felt like he was freezing in the warm, still air, and his heart raced like a scared rabbit's when it was hit by a pair of quickly approaching headlights on a highway. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, with no power or control over the situation at all.  
"I am in love with you, Dean. Been for a long while."

The rabbit was ran over. The marks it left on the asphalt stretched on for a while, and bits and pieces of it would still be falling off of the wheels miles from where it had died. Its ghost, however, rose from the road, unaware of its demise. There was no air for Dean to breathe anymore.  
Before he knew it, he'd grabbed the angel's hair and brought their lips together in what was more than anything an act of desperation and confusion, a need for something more from the older, something solid and understandable - or at the very least, the act demanded affection and comfort to keep him sane in a situation he was now completely lost in. What he didn't expect was the way in which the older returned that kiss; it had a hunger in it, and in seconds what had started with nothing more than their lips colliding had transformed into a fight between their lips and tongues, and the way in which Castiel held his hair was painful at the same time as it was confining and controlling. Dean hated that feeling, it awoke a certain panic inside him, the need to be freed, and that fear turned into more fuel for the kiss, a passion that renewed the movements every time he felt like he couldn't take it any longer.

He tasted tears in it, all his own, and when Castiel registered them, he only held Dean's hair tighter so that the grip threatened to rip the strands off their roots. Dean let out a muffled whine and the kiss broke. They stared into one another's eyes as if unable to believe any of what had just happened. If it hadn't been for the string of saliva still joining their lips together and all the excess around their mouths and on their chins that they'd managed to spread while drawn into the act, it could have well been a shared, vivid hallucination.  
The angel's hand slipped onto the back of Dean's neck and the shiver that ran straight down his spine from that contact was brought on both by the extremely pleasurable feel of it upon the skin and the threat of pain from the recovering parts. A hint of a smile crossed the male's features when Dean blinked and the slightest movement of his head in response to the feel of the adrenaline charging through his veins broke the last contact between their lips. The thread of cold saliva fell on Dean's lip and instinctively, his tongue picked it up before he realised what he was doing.  
He had difficulty swallowing for the umpteenth time that week, and he felt like the ground beneath them was rocking slowly.

Words crawled up his throat like insects.  
"Are you in pain?"

"Much less than yesterday."  
  
"Even after the walk you took?"  
  
"It would seem so."

"Take a painkiller."  
The words were dedicated little creatures, determined to walk right out of him. But he needed this. He needed it so much it was like all his life was depending on it happening. Castiel stood up, slowly and carefully, and took a couple steps towards the main room. Then at the doorway he stopped and turned with a smile on his face.  
"You know," he began thoughtfully, the smile widening, "I've never tried a man before."

The words brought the shivers back and they shook Dean's body so violently he couldn't speak before the last one had ran its course. His smile was insecure.  
"Yeah, neither have I."

"So we should celebrate the occasion, don't you think?"

Dean opened his mouth and closed it again.  
Then he chuckled.  
"If you want me to get the wine," he finally said, "you'd need to skip on the pill. I don't think that's a very bright idea."

Castiel had already crossed the room to the bottle and was fishing one of them out. He glanced at Dean and eyed him almost playfully.  
"I'm afraid I can't," he said and broke the thick white oval into two pieces, "but I'll be careful. Run along, then. I'll relax and let this work its magic."

Dean nearly complained, but then the excitement struck him. He jumped up from the bed, having forgotten everything about the things that had happened earlier, as if his whole life was about this moment and nothing else mattered.  
"If you fall asleep," he grunted in a warning tone as he walked past the angel.  
  
Castiel laughed.  
"That you don't need to worry about," he assured him, "Not tonight. Not with these pills."

Dean felt his eyes upon him even as he closed the door behind him. His fingertips brushed the wind bells as he started running.


	11. Intoxicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You made a deal  
>  And now it seems you have to offer up."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the 12 pages of pure porn. This chapter spans the first six and is infinitely more awkward than the next.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

He'd never felt quite so inexperienced when touched like this. Castiel's fingers were different from those he'd had on him before, and so was his manner of exploring his body. The glass of wine in Dean's hands shook a little, only noticeable from the tiny shockwaves each tremor caused. He was only without his shirt, knees on Castiel's both sides, and the angel wore the loose grey pants he'd worn earlier - he'd lost his shirt while Dean had been getting the wine, but Dean was still afraid to touch him, not entirely certain what he'd break if he would reach there. Something that he hadn't already lost with the male's fingers upon his nipples, pushing and playing around with them. Bit by bit the other was going further, however.  
"Drink," Castiel's voice commanded, and for a reason or another, Dean obediently brought the glass to his lips and drank half of it.  
The liquid was still passing down his throat, part of the amount stuck in his mouth, when Castiel's lips appeared on his right nipple and closed it between them, nearly choking him on the wine. He managed to swallow and what began as a surprised sound ended as a descending moan, his eyes closing involuntarily and lips parting as the older sucked at the bit of flesh tryingly. The reaction seemed to please the angel, and right there and then, the passing grin on the male's face made Dean even harder than he'd gotten from everything else.  
Awkwardly, he drank more of the wine and reached for the bottle to fill his glass up again. It was a strange position to drink, but Castiel had insisted - or rather, he had blackmailed Dean into it. He either drank on top of the angel or they didn't get close before he would. Apparently only one of them had the patience for games, so Dean gave up quite soon.

He had to drink again when Castiel's fingers brushed against the closed zipper of his pants and pulled it open like it was the most normal thing in the world to do. He pretended he wasn't aware of the manner the older tugged at his pants to pull them down nor the feel of them actually slipping along his hips, revealing more of him like he was a piece of art just waiting to be unveiled, and each time he even remotely tried to become conscious of anything that was going on around him, he drank more. With a hint of a grimace he figured he'd pass out before they'd be skin on skin, but knowing that option existed made him feel a little more at ease. It would be embarrassing, but not too embarrassing. More embarrassing than passing out was actually admitting he was too afraid, should it come to that point. Not like Castiel wouldn't understand. He was the local love guru after all and he'd probably seen everything, a man suffering of internalised homophobia probably didn't strike him as anything out of the usual. Dean chuckled. Castiel didn't even glance at him.  
  
"Tell me," Dean huffed as he stepped off of the angel and down on the floor, cheating himself out of paying attention when he at the same time kicked off the loose-hanging pants along with the boxers that the older had tugged down without a second thought, "How do you manage to always smell of cinnamon, no matter how much weed you smoke and days you spend without bathing? Is that an angel thing?"

Castiel sighed.  
"You ruin your beauty by opening your mouth. You also don't pay attention, Dean," he said and laid his palm over the shape of the younger's hip, tracing the skin down all the way down his thigh where his fingers finally lifted from it, leaving the other feeling like fresh meat up for auction.  
"I've never gone without bathing for more than two days, and that was when we were stuck in the forest and I really had no other choice."

"Even now?"  
  
"Where do you think I wasted those four hours? In the forest? With this wound? Do I somehow distract your otherwise keen senses or do you really suck so bad at tracking things? For a hunter, you seem to lack the most important skills entirely. Perception, alertness and logic."

Moment by moment Dean disliked the auction feel more, and finally he kneeled down on the floor and laid the glass next to him, far enough to avoid knocking it down but still nearby. The wine was much too good to waste.  
"It's just you," he noted, now distracting himself from the manner his own hand pressed against the front of Castiel's pants yet still he was momentarily overwhelmed by the heat and feel of the male's sex, even through the thin clothing separating them still, "I usually don't follow every move of those that I don't intend to shoot. You're pretty low on the kill list these days."  
He was stumbling on his words but he was also mastering the art of deception: it was like he wasn't, at least in his own head he could believe so.

Castiel smiled, closing his eyes.  
"So you do not consider me a threat?"

"No," Dean replied casually.  
He pulled the angel up and standing and pressed against him, avoiding the wounded side of the male like the plague even though his body was burning for full contact, and lead his fingertips to the waist of the last obstacle between the rest of them.  
"I simply don't want to shoot you, or I would have done it already."

"Put me down like a sick dog?"  
  
"Like an eagle with broken wings. You deserve no less than that."  
There was pain in the tone of his voice now, well hidden but not untraceable. The cloth fell down and Castiel stepped over it. His body felt like silk and wires somehow joining seamlessly together. Dean was afraid to look, but soon he didn't have to as Castiel bent to kiss his neck. He leaned his head back and brought his fingers on the angel's back and up along his neck, finally ascending all the way up to his hair and pressing him down until he felt teeth against his skin. The feeling raised a soft grunt from his throat, and his hips pressed against the older's in an instinctive demand for more.  
His fear was shedding from him, its remains falling to dust before hitting the ground. He needed this so much more than he was afraid of letting himself take the necessary steps.

"It's been a while since you last said anything remotely nice to me. It seems only fitting that the first thing you do say is about putting me down with dignity."

"Shut up."

"Pick up your wine."

Dean did so, and as he pulled up again, Castiel was sitting back down. He tilted his head at the younger and Dean knew what was expected of him. He placed a knee next to the male and climbed back on top of him, once more terrified and trying to hide it all behind the glass of wine. The candle on the table shivered in the wake of their movements.  
The angel took a firm hold of his hips and adjusted him upon his lap until he was satisfied with his position - for what he had aimed for, Dean had no clue, but getting moved around like that was a new experience. Only when Castiel's eyes met his did he realise he'd been trying to read the older's mind with a keen stare, and the notion made him blush a little, even if it was entirely unnoticeable in the dim yellow light. He hid his embarrasment in a demanding kiss, somehow relieved it was so easy to do now - at least so much easier than simply sitting there and waiting for whatever would come next. In his hand, the wine swayed around the glass, almost leaking over. He felt Castiel smiling into the kiss. It had lost the desperation of their first one, but there was something else brewing under the surface that Dean couldn't name yet, a feeling with the potential to be stronger than whatever madness had first driven them into it.  
He was high on the wine and the strange similarity of the body beneath him, but what really seemed to make him dizzy was the knowledge that he was there with Castiel. Even broken like this, the being that resided within the skin was divine, and it was like only now Dean could really feel the angel behind the defenses he'd built around him to stay sane after being deprived of most of what he truly was - like he could feel a flow of exceptional power running right beneath that warmth he was so close to now. It was a strange sensation. It didn't let him forget, not for a moment, that he was sharing his body with the same creature that had once held his soul.

No matter how far they had come from that moment, it wasn't erased from either of them. Somewhere deep inside, they still shared the connection that had formed between them before they'd truly met for the first time. The bond that Dean had thought had withered to death was again radiating a force that tied them together, full of life and energy they shared on a level the human couldn't quite grasp or even reach for. Still, he enjoyed the feel of it, as it had always been stronger than what he'd ever felt to a human being. It lacked the sense of temporarity and distance, like in full truth they'd always been one and the same, two halves of the same thing, split in two skins that they couldn't really connect with. He'd often wondered if other people felt the same sort of inability to connect with others, like nothing they touched was quite real. Castiel was real. Castiel was there and he felt like heaven incarnate.

Dean's fingers found the coarseness of the stubble on the male's jawline and he smiled, eyes closed. Kissing when both of them had a smile upon their lips soon became impossible, and they parted, only to bring together their noses and foreheads. The feel of the older breathing against Dean's lips made his skin crawl in the most welcome manner imaginable. At one point that Dean had entirely missed, the rythm of their breathing had turned the same.

He was becoming calmer, as if his mind had grown tired of battling the insecurities and prompting unbased fears, and decided to instead explore the situation as a new opportunity, one he was inclined to take and experience the way it was coming to him. That feeling of curiosity was even trumping the lust that was growing inside him, reining it in so that it never really took over him, merely stayed an undertone and a driving factor. He hadn't experienced many spiritual things in his life, but this moment was borderlining one, and he wasn't certain how he was supposed to take it all in. He'd jumped into it like any other one night's stand, but the more he got in tune with it, he realised it had never been that and that it would never become that. There was too much to them, too many years they'd shared, too many feelings between them and so much tension they'd never released properly. And Castiel had said the words that most often launched Dean running as far as he could. What sort of insanity had rooted him in place now? He hoped it was merely the way the whole situation stroked his ego, being loved so much by a divine being capable of wiping off entire cities with a blink of an eye. Even if very little of that Castiel remained, the manner his strength shone through him now had effectively reminded Dean of exactly how privileged he was to have him by his side.  
Sure, even together they hadn't been strong enough to change the fate of the world, but they had tried. How many people out of everyone who had ever been born could claim that an angel had stood by their side, fallen for them and stayed behind when the heavens had closed upon them for forever? Had Dean ever thought to appreciate the sacrifice properly?

His lips brushed against the older's again and he struggled to find words. Castiel held his breath for a moment, reading Dean's body language correctly and expecting him to say something. The younger exhaled, the breath trembling as it crossed the short distance from inside him onto the angel's mouth.  
There were no words to express what he was thinking. Instinctively, his body transformed the message into a movement of his hips, and he moved his free hand onto the other's back. Castiel smiled again.

"I didn't know angels are capable of experiencing love," he heard himself breathing out.

Castiel brushed his nose with the tip of his own and let out a warm, quiet huff.  
"Are you?"

"I don't think so."

The angel moved his arms around Dean's waist and looked him in the eyes. His expression was open and interested, if not a little downhearted or discouraged underneath.  
"Then this should be interesting," he finally replied with a hint of a smile, "Two beings incapable of loving, a bottle of red wine, painkillers - does this sound like the settings of a tragedy to you as well?"

"On par with Titanic. I'm nearly about to shed tears," Dean grimaced.  
The muscles of his hips seemed to gain pressure the longer he stayed still. Castiel let out a quiet laughter and guided the movement Dean's body ached for with both hands, first forwards, then down, then back again. Dean's eyes were barely open as he raised his face towards the ceiling with a low moan and repeated the moves on his own, with Castiel's hands staying upon his skin the whole time still, encouraging him to keep going.

"I'm not going to bottom this, just so you know," he mumbled through the growing need for just more than the foreplay that threatened to stretch on for a very long while still.

"You have so many preconceptions you need to lose, Dean. Don't think in theory. This is an art form, and you're making it an achievement."

"Shut it, guru. I know how to have sex," Dean grunted and eyed the older as his hips rocked against the older's again.  
Castiel's smile annoyed him, and being annoyed made him crave for the sex more than anything so far had.

"I've no doubt that you do," the angel said with a playful huff, "but I'm certain you have no idea whatsoever how to _enjoy_ it."  
Dean opened his mouth to argue, but the angel shut it with a kiss, and when it was over, the message had changed.

"Do you claim you can do better than me?" he asked, voice full of disbelieving, prideful mockery.

Castiel looked into his eyes and his calmness was almost unnerving.  
"Yes. If you give me the chance, I'm positive I can teach you a lot about pleasure."

"When did we enter Pretty Woman again?"  
The kiss on Dean's neck made his mind fall blank, and when he felt the older's fingers bending around his hardened length, he let out a cry of pleasure that he hadn't expected. It ended in a breathless laughter, a denial of what had happened and a flood of endorphines that threatened to drive him across an invisible line he wasn't ready to cross yet.

Castiel traced his neck with his tongue and ended the track with a kiss upon his collarbone. He breathed against the younger for a moment, and that moment seemed to wrap around them tightly until Dean felt he was physically being held still, barely able to breath. His erection ached, and he had little idea how he'd ended up like that.  
"Drink," Castiel finally spoke, his lips still very close to the spot he'd kissed.

Dean's hand was trembling as he brought the glass over to his lips and sipped, for the first time not really desiring the wine in the least. He sensed the approval of the older beneath him from the way his arms around him relaxed. Soon the other's hand climbed up along his spine and landed between his shoulderblades, its fingers petting the skin there casually and gently.  
"Now, you're not going to 'bottom' anything, but you're getting drunk and I've had all the time in the world to understand anatomy in a manner you've never thought was possible. Therefore, I'd appreciate if you could trust yourself in my hands - we'll keep this position where you'll never need to give more power to me than you feel comfortable with, and I'll simply sit here and show you a whole new world of pleasure."

Dean closed his eyes and lowered his head, considering. The wine was messing with his head worse than the incenses and his arousal was.  
"So I'm just another one of your girls, here for a session?" he finally sighed, aiming his gaze into Castiel's eyes.  
Castiel smiled and shook his head.  
"No, you'd never be one of my girls," he replied confidently, "Just like I'll never be one of yours. Don't pretend you've lived in chaste and surrounded yourself with purity - and don't fool yourself into thinking you can justify acting like I'm the whore in this neighbourhood. We're equally stained with decadence, but we're still two different shades of grey."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Dean grunted and brushed his fingers through the male's hair in a manner that edged violence, "but you're still wounded, so this time, I'll go with whatever you have in mind. You have your chance because I nearly got you killed. Fair enough, right?"

The angel licked his lips and breathed out deeply. He nodded, looking up at Dean again with a sort of a decisive look in his eyes.  
"Then, I need you to pick up two oils of any kind, and a pack of condoms."

The words made Dean grimace. As he straightened his aching legs to stand on the floor again, he gave Castiel a long stare and shook his head.  
"I wasn't prepared for hearing that from _you_ ," he noted in a disturbed tone, "So where do you keep the Pandora's box?"

"Where would you keep it?" Castiel asked in return.  
He was clearly having too much fun for his own good, but Dean couldn't have cared less. He stood still for a moment, feeling naked and confused, but as he sipped his wine once again, he realised the only place he would have stored his things was under the bed. He threw an annoyed glance at Castiel before handing his glass to him and diving on the floor on his stomach to reach under the bed.  
"Good."

He heard the angel sipping the drink and then filling the glass before his eyes got used to the dark and found a box right behind the two tea cups they'd stored there earlier. He pulled that box out and opened the lid with Castiel watching over his every move from the bed. He was about to move off what looked like a plain black sheet from the top of whatever was underneath when his eyes caught a glimpse of the older's naked form and his breathing halted. For all that time, he hadn't had the courage to look. It had taken everything he could spare to feel the male, but now, slowly, he raised his head and took in the sight of him as well, and his heartbeat caught up with what he saw in a quickening pace until it rythmically drummed against his ribs like a wild beast.

Castiel was looking at him, but he allowed himself a while to just take in his form, the shade of his skin and the fine line of hair thickening the lower it reached on his abdomen and the comfortable, relaxed pose he was sitting in. Gathering his courage, he met the angel's gaze and found himself smirking. As he turned back towards the box, he gave the male a thumbs up and felt an explosion of butterflies in the pit of his stomach. They rose up to his heart and made it flutter faster, yet its sound was quieter. It didn't seem to threaten to escape out of him anymore.

"Two oils?" he repeated, suddenly remembering his instructions.  
  
"Two."

"And you just want me to pick them blind?"

Dean's fingertips traced the small bottles inside the box, and he tried not to think about what sort of hands had been on them before. He had his fingers crossed for Castiel's clean hands. He could handle that.  
He got no answer from the male, and he gave up on asking. Clearly this was some sort of a mind game, so trying to figure it out was only going to cost him time he could be spending tending to his needs, and quite frankly, he didn't care what oils he was going to be using for that. Still, he felt like he wasn't going to get out of it if he only picked two bottles by chance and threw them on the bed with the pack of condoms that he did, in fact, only pick out and throw behind him. While he rolled open the first bottle that his hand landed upon, a small, palm-sized green glass bottle with no label on it, just like the rest of them, he heard Castiel fumbling around the package with the condoms in it.  
A random thought crossed his mind just before he got the bottle open and its scent cut off his conscious thinking: in a few years, all the condoms would be out of date.  
That, to him, surely meant the apocalypse had come.

Mind still on that thought he brought the bottle a little closer to his nose and breathed in the thick scent. From this close up, it was too strong for him - he frowned lightly when he closed the bottle and brought it up, trading it for the next one. He had no idea what he was looking for, or whether he'd even notice any differences, but after the first one he hoped the next would be better. And it was. It was lighter and sharper, like the smell of a fresh orange when opened up, only sweeter and lacking the actual scent of an orange entirely. He closed the bottle and planted it on the floor next to him, picking up the next - too heavy - and the one after - too thick, probably hemp - and then one more, which was almost as strong as the first one, but the smell of it was entirely different, somehow softer, and he couldn't help but think of velvet when he smelled it. It was good. As he closed it and picked the other bottle up to hand them both to Castiel, he almost expected the angel to tell him his nose was ruined and he couldn't be serious, but instead, the older simply took them with a hint of a smile and laid them on the bed next to him. He stretched his legs and motioned Dean back to him, and Dean obeyed, his mind oddly calm now. First he replaced the lid on the box, then he got up and climbed on the bed in the same pose he'd been in before, this time braver and more eager, and ended up so close to the other male that their hips pressed together with enough force to make both tense up for a second. Castiel's eyes closed and his lips parted, and Dean kissed him without hesitation, moving his hips against his as he did so. He wanted a sound or a reaction, wanted to know he was wanted. And that was all.

As he pushed himself up, leaning forwards on his knees, he did get that reaction. Castiel's voice was low and broken as he gave up and let a sound through, a small voice barely half a moan. It raised the fine hair on Dean's neck and sent a shiver through his body that broke out as a stronger than intended push against the older's body. He felt like there was a fire building up underneath his skin.

He barely noticed when the now nearly full glass of wine returned to his hand, but slowly, moment by moment, he awoke to its existence as his subconscious kept it in balance. It was a bothersome thing, especially as full as it was, and in a sort of a distracted dreamstate he reached to put it down on the table. Castiel's hand grabbed his wrist firmly as he began the movement, and he opened his eyes to a decisive contact telling him he wasn't going to just ditch the glass anywhere. His brows knit together and he opened his mouth to ask, but Castiel kissed him quiet and turned to open first two condom wrappings, leaving the other on the bed, and the a bottle of oil. The fragrance was that of the lighter one. Dean didn't even notice he was drinking his wine again as he watched Castiel casually pull a condom over two of his fingers and then spread some of the oil all over it. When he closed the bottle and turned to look at Dean, his expression seemed to ask him why he was staring.

"What?" Dean asked him defensively.

The angel raised his brows a little, lowering his gaze again to concentrate on what he was about to do. Dean suddenly realised he hadn't prepared for this yet, and as that thought pushed its roots through the former calmness of his mind, his fingertips grew cold again. Castiel took a hold of his arm with the hand he wasn't guarding so as to not spread the oil anywhere unnecessary and, careful to not break the eye contact at any stage, guided Dean's body up and towards him until he was leaning onto his knees in a slightly raised position. The younger laid his palm on Castiel's shoulder on the healthy side of his body to share a portion of his weight, avoiding overburdening his legs, as he had a feeling they would be staying in this position for a while still. He grimaced to the feel of the older pushing his hand between his thighs.  
Castiel chuckled quietly.  
"Drink," he said, "slowly."

Dean felt like he was signing his own death sentence when he raised the glass up to his lips with a trembling hand. Castiel waited until his concentration was turned more to the drink than to sensing everything that went on with his body, but what he achieved by that was merely a momentary advantage. He slid a single finger into the younger's body causing him to tense up immediately. The sensation was purely pleasurable, but it was strange nonetheless - Dean had gone there a couple times before, mostly on his own but once with a girl, but the situations had been too different to even compare to what he felt now.   
  
Firstly, Castiel's finger was a lot larger than the girl's had been, and he was far from insecure about how he moved it. He was waiting calmly for Dean to relax again, but the manner he'd pushed in was enough to send a wholly different message to the younger's body than the girl's finger had a long time ago. It had been play. This wasn't play, and not even the weak facade of carelessness could mask that fact.  
He drew breath and drank again. Slowly, tasting every drop that passed his lips and touched his tongue, he swallowed a mouthful just to calm down.  
Secondly, Castiel wasn't him. That was the only difference he had to point out about how having any part of the older inside him was different to jerking off.

The first push and slow retreat was already turning the situation around for Dean. He leaned forwards, body tensing up again but this time from pure pleasure, and Castiel had hardly done anything yet. A strained whimper escaped his throat when the older pulled his finger out, but it turned to a somewhat disgruntled grunt when Dean felt the other massaging the muscle from the outside. He didn't dare to look anywhere near the older. Shame burned his cheeks and he felt conflicted again. The strongest desire in him was to stay, but soon after came the doubts and self-consciousness, and they prevented him from relaxing.  
He opened his eyes just enough to see the candle's light reflecting from the window's glass. His lips were parted and he was breathing through his mouth, and he concentrated on that for a moment, trying to return to breathing normally just for the sake of it and finding he was entirely unable to do that. Then he tried to gather up enough courage to look at Castiel instead of straight past him, but every time he saw Castiel's eyes flickering towards him to catch a glimpse of his expression, he shyed away from even the thought of it.  
"Wine, Dean."

And he drank.

"Close your eyes."  
  
He closed them, just to feel the finger penetrating him again, spreading him slightly and applying pressure to nerves inside him that he hadn't known had existed before. And maybe they hadn't. Maybe the angel was creating them as he went on. Perhaps that was the one skill he still had and that was why he'd gotten his reputation with the girls.  
Before Dean even noticed, his body had already grown fond of the touch, and he caught himself from rocking ever so slightly against the finger, wishing it would go deeper - and the hand he'd used to balance himself was now reaching down his body, intending to multiply his pleasure, maybe even get somewhere with it. He'd never had this slow sex before.  
Castiel let out a breathless, amused huff. It made Dean feel like he was entering a zone which had rules he hadn't been informed about. He growled and finally turned to look at the other again. He had to top it with more wine, and gods was he growing tired of the taste, but it helped.  
It _still_ helped.

He didn't have any idea how long they'd already spent on the bed. In the back of his mind, Dean could feel a unusual tingling trying to hurry them up. The last thing he wanted was for Sam to walk in and catch him like this.  
His cheeks flushed and he swallowed uncomfortably. He nearly growled again when Castiel took a firm hold of his wrist as his fingers bent around his length in an attempt to create a shortcut through a portion of what was in store for him. When the angel let go of his hand the minute it was useless again, he realised what the older was after. With a heavy sigh, he leaned back again. To his surprise, he felt another finger entering him easily, covered by the slippery rubber. It felt more comfortable than the first one had, although he couldn't say he fully enjoyed the sensation still.

"Stop staring at me."

Castiel smiled and turned his gaze down, but it wasn't really better, as he was now effectively staring at the most attention-hungry portion of Dean's whole body, which only managed to make him more conscious about himself. With a shiver of plain discomfort he drank again. He'd just closed his eyes when he felt Castiel's lips seeking contact with his, and before he really could manage a reaction, the older was tasting the wine from his skin.  
It might have made sense in some realm of thinking, as he was currently using both his hands for something - one for balancing his body so as to not irritate the wound by unnecessary muscle tension, and one for... Dean swallowed. His mind wasn't really up to registering that in words. Either way, if he'd had the capacity to think, he'd found the manner in which Castiel picked the taste of the wine straight from him quite logical.

"Would you mind if I touched you with bare fingers?"

The other's voice seemed to reach Dean very slowly, and his body shook again. His brows knit closer together and his concentration failed.  
"Should I? I mean, isn't that – normal?"  
His confusion seemed oddly amusing to the older, but he didn't say anything before pulling his hand back and adding the oil on his bare fingertips.

"Rougher," he finally noted, "More difficult if you don't know how to take it. You seem to know, which shouldn't surprise me as much as it does."

Dean was uncertain how to respond to that, so he let out a frustrated huff and lifted his hips beggingly. This was changing him, he just wasn't sure how yet.


	12. Intertwine

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

At first, Dean was overwhelmed with how it felt to simply climb onto the older's lap and lean down until they were one. His body adjusted slowly into the new situation, and meanwhile, his mind was preoccupied with the feel of it all - the wetness of their skins together, the stretch and pressure in the muscles of his thighs as he held himself still on top of the other, and most of all, the throbbing, heated connection that had bound them together into a single being. It was so strange and he was still nervous due to that, but he couldn't find any trace of wanting to get away from that feeling even from the deepest pits of his suppressed thoughts. The only thing he wanted was to be this close, the only need he had was to get more of it - to maybe reach still a bit closer. When he first dared to move his hips, his conscious thoughts were washed away by the way the older's flesh adjusted to his movements, pressing against him from the inside in a way that sparked alive the need to move again.

At first, it was all that: Dean chased pleasure by learning a whole new way of moving his body, and the sounds of oiled skin moving against oiled skin and the occasional slaps of flesh against flesh were the only sounds that mattered.  
Sooner rather than later, however, it dawned to him that there were rules to this game. The first was that the wine was not allowed to spill. What resulted from this was a painfully slow rythm with which Dean could barely work for his pleasure, and he was often more frustrated with the manner he didn't feel enough than he could enjoy what he did feel. He held the glass at varying heights, trying to find an angle where his arm wouldn't move too much, but it was impossible.

The second rule was that he had all the control over the situation, but if he ever wanted to get more out of it, he'd need to give it up. That would have displeased him if it wasn't for the growing need to get what he needed as fast as he could and being denied just that relief - control was finally a secondary issue on his list of pressing problems.  
The third rule seemed to be that he wasn't allowed to touch himself, and the manner which Castiel was handling him was much too slow for his liking.

His whole body was burning with heat he didn't know how to control, and he grew more anxious by the moment, more inclined to throw the rules out and let the wine spill. Yet he knew that if he'd do that, he'd never get what he wanted. And that threat still kept him going. His mind was a useless, blunt tool with no purpose, and when he tried to use it to figure out what the point was, he found it buzzing with the loud sounds of all his thoughts screaming over one another.

The whole time he tried to look for the right pose and angle, he stared right into Castiel's eyes. The angel looked back at him, lips slightly parted, tongue skipping by them every now and then and quiet huffs escaping past them at other times, but he seemed largely void of the need that was slowly driving Dean mad. There was only a hint of challenge in his eyes, mostly it was a mixture of pleasure and curiosity. At times, his hand lifted from Dean's erection to touch him elsewhere, most often to hold him by the waist or to pull at his hair, and when he did so, through the flashes of extreme frustration, Dean could see the curiosity in him increasing.

The younger was working with his whole body to find the proper angle - sometimes, his body tensed with the most intense sort of pleasure, but he always lost it the moment he started feeling it, because when the waves hit him, he lost control over his hips and the urgency with which he chased the feeling seemed to make it disappear as if scared away.  
He was breathless, his skin was wet and slippery against the older's lap and touch with his thighs slipping effortlessly against Castiel's, and when he leaned closer, either in the fruitless search for the stimulation he lacked or to bite and suck at the older's neck, which seemed to bring him some comfort at times, he felt sweat trickling down his face.

At times, he wished he could say something, but Castiel had made clear that every time he wanted to open his mouth, he had to drink, so he tried not to. His muscles ached, but he was too determined to even consider any other option than going on with this. The more tired he grew and the more he ached, the less his body started registering all that. Little by little his concentration turned not to the frustration but to the fact that with time, he'd learned to aim for the spot inside him that when touched felt like someone poured a bucketful of the purest sexual pleasure right over into his veins. The longer he managed to stay upon it, the less he even cared about the rest, and he noticed from beyond the growing bliss he experienced that every time his body shook with that feeling, Castiel's grip around his length became firmer and his touch more throughout in its movements, yet he also seemed to slow down - a detail which almost entirely passed unnoticed by Dean, because his body was very much preoccupied with experiencing the blinding ecstacy his own rythm was bringing him.

Then he lost it again, but instead of becoming more frustrated, he became determined. Somehow, his determination affected his state of mind. He found himself becoming calmer and with that, the glass of wine in his hand stopped swaying so much.  
Shivering from head to toe as he once more found the right pace and angle, he closed his eyes and unnoticingly started arching his back. A low moan escaped his throat. When he felt Castiel's arm behind his back, pressing against the steepening curve, a small aware part of his mind realised it must have meant that he wasn't currently massaging his cock, which in turn meant that the pleasure he felt that seemed to burn right below his skin and at the same time in the very marrows of his bones was coming from something else than direct stimulation. That was, to put it simply, quite a strange realisation.

He heard Castiel encouraging him with words he couldn't understand, his lips parting further to make room for both the sounds he was making and his breathing that pushed through along them as he strained to listen. The arm against him brought his back further into the pose it had been bending to, almost as if melting along the gentle pressure, and each inch somehow managed to increase the volume of his voice to measure how good he felt there.  
An unclear thought flashed through Dean's mind and made him aware of himself again, disconnecting him from the bliss. He let out a whimper and straightened his back, falling right into an eye contact with Castiel who looked entirely different from the way he'd looked when Dean had last laid his eyes upon him - his cheeks were red and he breathed almost as heavily as Dean did, and his skin was just as wet, but the most had changed in the way he looked at Dean. The younger took a hold of his shoulders and climbed off of him; the older's fingers left his side reluctantly, as if letting go of a bird that had caught wind under its wings.  
Even his expression resembled the longing one might show in that situation. Something about it made Dean's chest ache beneath the thundering of his heartbeat. He buried the feeling as he walked around the bed and laid down on it at the same time that Castiel's expression lit up with understanding. The angel turned around, smiling slightly, and in a moment he was over Dean and their lips joined as the younger raised his hips onto the older's lap again, his back still against the soft bed that accepted him into its embrace a little too eagerly.

Castiel adjusted himself against Dean and their bodies joined again, the sensation of it like submerging in hot water somehow, especially with the bed bending underneath Dean's back like it was about to swallow him whole. The scent of the second oil was thick in the air, making the whole situation somehow unreal, dreamlike. The candle's flame was flickering as the heart slowly drowned in the liquid wax gathering in the pit the fire had melted into the middle, and the rain outside had calmed to an occasional drop against the window's glass. Wind had grown stronger as the chiming of the bells was louder now, carrying through the silence in the cabin like music that belonged inseparably in the small world that had broken free of the hell that reigned outside.

Now the angel was the one deciding how they made love, and although giving himself up like that was hard for Dean, he was confident that he'd made the right choice. If there had ever been someone who could hold all of him in this way and never hurt him, it was Castiel. He'd been closer before, so much closer, and Dean knew that even now, he could trust himself in the angel's hands. Thinking that was so much easier than accepting it and relaxing into it, but he breathed in and out and in again and concentrated on the smell of the oil, convincing himself with each drag of air he filled his lungs with that it was intoxicating, that it was the reason he felt the way he did. It helped him let go of his doubts, and slowly he became aware of the manner the older's hips moved against his in a different way to how he'd initially experienced it. The angel's way of holding him was nothing like the way he'd held anyone, and he didn't seem to struggle at all no matter how gentle and slow his rythm was. His pleasure seemed to be tightly tied together with Dean's, and the more he could please Dean, the more he gained himself. Dean gripped the blanket around him and pushed his head back, bending his neck and arching his back. Castiel's lips caressed his neck for a moment before his touches became more demanding, leaving behind some of the previous patience and replacing it with determined sort of passion, one closer to earth and more familiar to Dean than what he'd showed so far. The change made him smirk, eyes closed and a bruise forming on the back of his neck.  
He'd wear something that'd hide it tomorrow. The only ladies within miles all knew he hadn't slept with them tonight.

The bed creaked quietly under the layers of mattresses and blankets on top of it as Dean's hips bucked up unexpectedly. The older had brushed the very area he'd just learned existed, and when it happened without his own efforts like that, the effect was almost too strong for him to enjoy. It was like receiving an electric shock that strangled his spine and took his breath away. Yet at the same time, he was like an addict: the more he'd had of that, the more he craved it. How much stronger could the feeling grow?  
He let out a hoarse, breathless chuckle and pressed against the angel, bringing his arms around him as he did so, momentarily forgetting entirely to care about whether or not his actions were risking the wound, and Castiel adjusted to his needy grip. He breathed into Dean's ear and each sound he made was like a touch to multiple sensitive spots in the younger's body that had nothing to do with his ears. His body shifted a little, pulling Dean's hips with it a few inches to the left, and just when Dean was about to correct the mildly uncomfortable curve his spine had turned to, the angel moved inside him again and that movement hit the exact right place, wiping out all thoughts from Dean's mind and landing him in a blinding current of what felt like energy rushing inside him. He nearly screamed, and whatever did come out of his mouth went right past his hearing, like he wasn't equipped to analyze the sounds he heard at all, like they were unimportant details that had nothing to do with him. His fingers scraped along the older's back with so much force that his fingertips were white and hurt, but that information was just as irrelevant to the man, he didn't even realise he was doing it. He grinded his hips against Castiel's and the shriek he'd let out had turned into a long, low purring sound that went on and on, rising each time another burst of pleasure knocked him closer to either the best orgasm of his life or the loss of consciousness, whichever would claim him first.

He felt pain about his neck again, then on his shoulder, and he had skin under his nails, and the scent of the oil had disappeared from the air as his senses were shutting down everything that wasn't the feel of the other male inside him and the sounds they were making together. The bed let out another quiet creak as Dean's grip around the angel turned tight with his whole body going rigid for just a moment - his breathing halted, he was entirely blind and deaf and for just a second, he felt dead - and then, as his heart remembered to beat again, the release that he felt nearly exploding inside him flooded free.  
It was more than he could handle, and when he next became aware of his surroundings, Castiel had moved back and was watching him with a highly entertained expression on his features. He held a hand loosely over his wound and he was panting, but Dean couldn't decide if it was due to pain or because what they'd just finished had been physically extremely exhausting. He couldn't move his hands. Nor his arms, legs or in fact, any part of his body. Everything in him was made of lead with the exception of his dick that only felt raw and like someone had dipped it into freezing fire.  
He closed his eyes and tried to remember how breathing functioned.

"That was... that was..."  
Not like that. When he drew air in, his muscles seemed to consider it a threat invading him and contracted on and off until he was breathing it all out again.  
"... that was awesome."

Castiel let out a tired chuckle.  
"Another round?"

Dean whimpered.  
"No way in hell," he mumbled, already half asleep.  
He struggled to regain consciousness and reached his right lead arm towards Castiel, who took a hold of his hand and held it.  
"Did you...?"

The angel made a content sound.  
"Haven't felt that good in... well, I haven't. Felt that good before, that is."  
He watched Dean for a moment, then let out a rough bemused chuckle.   
"You're pathetic, Dean - just give up and pass out already."

The breath he let out next was clearly pained, and as much as Dean would have liked to just pass out there and then, he forced himself in a half-sitting position and examined Castiel for a second. His eyes barely stayed open.  
"You okay?" he asked in an uncertain tone.  
  
Castiel smiled and nodded.  
"Just weak to temptations. Overdoing it was so much more rewarding than holding back... I'll be alright. I'm surprised you care."

Dean landed back on his back with a thud and let out a long, worn-out but pleased sigh.  
"Wake me up if it gets bad..."  
He was asleep before Castiel even attempted to reply.


	13. Just me and you (and our guns)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Tuesday enough for me at Monday 9:30 pm. And this chapter is painful. It makes me want to strangle everyone with a piano string. I am **not** kidding. Like Jesus WHAT IS WRONG WITH Y'ALL!!?

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

A breeze of fresh air lingered in the room, not particularly cold but on bare skin freshly exposed from under a blanket, a much too cool one nonetheless for Dean to ignore it. He opened his swollen-feeling eyes and breathed in the scent of early morning, his hands trying to grab a hold of the blanket to pull over his shoulders. The bed felt too large without another body on it. For a while, Dean couldn't understand why that notion made him feel so strange as after all, he'd woken up alone for the main part of his life and the past two years, it had always been in a double bed. Then his body started counting its bruises and all the recovering muscles he'd worked hard during the night, and the drying, sticky oil all around his thighs, buttocks and hips that made him feel dirty and glued parts of his body together. The whole space between him and the blanket smelled strongly of the oil's aroma, whatever it was.  
The scent brought back flashes of memories, so real and strong that Dean felt blood escaping from his fingertips and toes and, as if commanded elsewhere, gathering right up about his lower abdomen. He let out a heavy sigh and pushed the blanket aside.

The first thing he did was look around for Castiel. The angel was sitting on a pillow in the room ahead with a cup of steaming tea, looking tired and exactly like he'd just had sex, wearing only green cotton pants. He didn't seem to be cold.  
Every cell in Dean's body was drawing him back down onto the bed, nearly screaming for rest, but he forced himself up and into the clothes he'd worn for much too long. Castiel watched shamelessly as he dressed up, sipping his tea every now and then. He looked like he was watching an art performance, something non-human but beautiful, something that aroused his curiosity. Dean replied to his looks with stone cold glares, trying to get him to change that attitude, but it didn't work.  
  
He threw his shirt over his shoulder and started crossing the cabin. When he reached Castiel, he slowed down and brought his fingers through the male's soft hair.  
"Did you sleep?" he asked, his voice nearly unrecognisable due to the uncharacteristic softness of its tone.

Castiel nodded.  
"A while. I'll rest more later. Sam paid us a visit earlier, I thought you might not want him to see, so I cornered him by the door."

Dean grimaced.  
"Pain keeping you up?"  
He bit his lip and sighed.  
"What did he want?"

Castiel tilted his head a little and sipped his tea.  
"Just made sure you'll be getting up, although I suspect he had more to say, just not to me. You really should take a shower, Dean."

The younger huffed.  
"You think I don't know," he grunted and moved on, his fingers only now leaving the angel's hair.

He pushed his feet into the worn pair of shoes waiting for him by the open door. The wooden beads rattled against one another when he pushed through the curtain and entered the chilly morning outside. He'd almost forgotten he'd lost everything the night before, but now that the clear air contrasted with his hungover mind, the memory came back to him through the veil the sex had put between it and his consciousness. As he stepped down from the porch and made his way towards the shower room, he realised that despite everyone still around him, he was alone in this place. It was just as it had always been - he was an outsider in a group of uncertain allies. Him and Sam both.  
The sound of Dean's shoes upon the gravel were loud and distracting in the natural silence surrounding the man. It seemed to drown out the sounds of birds and wind entirely every time he laid his feet down. Unthinking, he moved off the gravel and took the longer way through the grass instead. Somewhere further away, someone else was walking on gravel too. Dean didn't want to find out who it was.

A doubt lingered at the back of his mind when he pulled open the thick door of the shower room and closed and chained it behind him. Feeling heavy, he threw his shirt on the bench sitting next to the wall, undid his oil-stained pants and kicked them off of his feet, picked them up and threw them on top of the shirt. If he'd been less hungover, he would have thought of visiting his own cabin first for clean clothes and a new towel, but as it happened, he _was_ hungover and at this point he had no intentions whatsoever to put on his clothes again. He'd shower and walk back wearing only his shoes and the towel he wanted to replace. It wasn't like it was probable he'd bump into any witnesses on the way.

One of the best things about the campsite had always been the showers. With resources available from the well, the nearby lake and scrap metals, as well as the expertise of some creative, skillful individuals who knew what they were doing, the showers were still working now that everything else was breaking down. Dean swallowed a mouthful of water to get the disgusting taste out of his mouth. The problem with the showers were that the amount of warm water was scarce at best and a depressing joke at worst, and the boilers were constantly malfunctioning. That was why the cold water neither shocked nor bothered him all that much. He was too used to it, and last night, he figured most peope had showered while he had been taking lessons in tantric sex, so the chances of having any of the already scarcely available hot water left for him had been laughably low to begin with. He smiled into the flow of cold water, and in a moment, the smile had grown into a smirk. More than in a long while, he finally felt connected with himself, somehow less a dead man and more the Dean he'd been before when things hadn't yet gone straight to hell and then taken a dive through the hole in its bottom. He had expected that the thought of sleeping with Castiel would make him feel disgusted or at least regretful, that once yesterday's awfulness had worn off of him, it would be a glaring mistake in the long chain of other glaring mistakes he'd made recently, but he felt nothing like that at all.  
The only thing he did feel was the certain lightness that he associated with a fulfilling night with someone he felt he could bond with, even if it was just for that one time, as it always was for him.

His hands washed the oil off of his skin one area at the time, starting from the abdomen and moving down into the coarse hair on his groin and still down between his legs. He needed both hands to clean the oil from his thighs, and for the while, he couldn't think of anything but how much he disliked oils for just this one trait that they had in common: they refused to wash off. The longer he scrubbed at his skin, the more certain he became that he'd smell of sex all the way to next year - just that nobody else would be reading it as the smell of sex, which in a manner did help things, but remembering how strongly he'd earlier associated the scent to the memory from the night before did away with even that perk.

With a heavy sigh he finally gave up, turned off the shower, straightened his back and reached to grab a stained container of home-made excuse for shampoo that smelled like old wine and tasted almost as awful if even a drop of it found its way into the mouth. That was when his ears picked out the sounds of a car driving to the gate not that far from him, some commanding shouts and a familiar-sounding response, then a long silence before the sounds of the car's doors opening and slamming closed again.  
The liquid dripped through his fingers as he stood listening. On any other day, he would have been found by now, called up to the gate. But not today. Today, he wasn't a leader anymore. He was the scum on ground, someone the rest could hate, a nobody, a rat feeding off of the contributing members of the group. Angrily, or rather hurt, he pushed his hands into his hair and scrubbed. When he turned the shower back on, he was biting his lip.  
Whatever was going on outside could wait as long as he'd be clean. His mind was working on it, slowly but certainly, and the conclusion he both feared and hoped to be the correct one was that the group he'd sent off to scout had somehow survived and was now safely back at the camp. There were other sounds from outside, voices, even Castiel's if he wasn't entirely wrong.

Strong semiphysical pain hit him in the abdomen as he listened, almost doubling him over.  
It halted his breathing for a moment and made his eyes water, the odd tear resulting from the sudden emotional overload which could have fallen out immediately washed away, mixing with the shower's stream.

He'd never felt this out of place before.

 

*

Sam stood nearby when Dean got out of his cabin. They looked at one another and Sam's expression was the one he had on him when he felt bad for Dean. It did nothing to brighten up the older's mood, but he was much too aware of his situation to even consider taking his burden out on Sam. Instead, he forced it all down his throat and tried to remember how to smile. Of course he didn't manage it believably enough to fool Sam, but he could still fool himself.  
"Hey," he greeted him, pretending the moment before had never happened, "Cas said you dropped by. Found yourself another bed?"

The corner of Sam's mouth turned up uncertainly, then fell back to normal. His posture relaxed and he took a step towards Dean, who was walking closer as well. They met in the middle.  
"Lotus offered me the extra one in her cabin, and Chuck said he'd look into the matter tomorrow, seeing which cabins we have keys for and - well, what just happened will change quite a bit, I think."

Dean looked at the ground. He pushed his hands into his pockets and drew breath before managing to look up again, but now his grin was almost convincing enough to get through even to Sam.  
"Did you have a good night, then?" he asked, winking.

Sam raised brows at him, and his eyes flickered to the bruise Dean had forgotten to cover up. The younger let out a nervous laugh and shook his head.  
"Man, I don't want to go there," he uttered, terrified at the thought, "We had drinks at the common room and then everyone sort of disappeared one by one when they got tired of me. Lotus and Beatrice ended up interrogating me half the night, at least over beers. But yeah, it wasn't very exciting, we went to sleep and then we slept. Separately. In our own beds."

Dean's face was flushed. He didn't know how to react to Sam _not_ reacting to what he saw, and he also didn't know if it would be best to simply ignore the matter or to make up some lousy excuse for the bruise. Maybe he walked into a door... or slipped on a pillow and hit his neck on the Buddha. No, it was best to ignore it, especially since he'd just passed the flames without the moment turning extremely embarrassing.  
He didn't even realise he'd reached out to hug Sam before the younger's body tensed against his.

"You don't even begin to know how I missed you," the older muttered as Sam awkwardly patted him on the back, "Dude, it's been hell for me. Probably worse for you - I don't mean to say it wasn't - just that... yeah."  
He pulled back and scraped at his neck insecurely. Sam looked away with an uncomfortable look on his face. When he looked back, he still smiled through it somehow. Dean's head cocked back a little from surprise when he saw that. He raised his brows in a respecting awe, which made Sam laugh, still weakly but it was a genuine laughter nonetheless.

"Look, man, I think we should maybe just go," the taller finally said, looking around at his strange surroundings.  
"And I don't mean today's trip either. I mean that if we had a car like before, take that and just leave. You and me. Somewhere else. I have a really horrible feeling about everything here, but I can't press a finger on it."

"You and me?" Dean repeated, looking at Sam examiningly.  
Sam nodded and answered Dean's gaze uncertainly. Dean's lips parted and he nodded a little.  
"Hell, you know, I think you might be right about that. I mean, I'm going to get shot if I stay, that's for pretty sure. How many came back?"

"You heard them?"  
  
"Sure did."

Sam hesitated and seemed to recall the people who had arrived earlier. Finally he laid his eyes upon Dean again, looking certain.  
"Seven."

"Seven?" Dean repeated, this time disbelievingly, "Damn, that's nearly everyone."  
His brows knit closer together.  
"I don't know, Sammy," he muttered after a moment, "That sure sounds weird to me. And weird is bad. We're like, what, experts on weird, and my senses are screaming it right now. D'you have a weapon?"

"I will," Sam said confidently and chuckled a little, "when you give me one."  
Dean rolled his eyes.  
"'f course. Come in, we need to arm you for the trip out."  
He motioned Sam to follow him and entered his cabin again.  
"Just that this time, I think I'm going to bring in a lot of stuff that isn't on the list."

He closed the door behind them and looked at Sam. The younger took a moment to notice his gaze, but when he did, he seemed unsure as to how to interpret it.  
"I have absolutely no trust in you whatsoever, Sammy, because I have zero reason to have any. But just so you know, I trust nobody around here either. So if you'd seriously ask me - if you said you'd get back on the road with me and go somewhere else, just you and me and our guns again, I want you to understand that I wouldn't hesitate, not one moment, to take that offer up."

Sam nodded slowly.  
"I don't want you to trust me," he said after considering a moment, "because I don't trust myself. Dean, my head's a mess, and we still don't know what's happened. For all I know, I _could_ be the Trojan horse. So do me a favour and don't start trusting me."

Dean huffed.  
"No way I would anytime soon, Sammy."

Sam looked up at him and leaned onto the table next to him, his eyes straying towards the ceiling.  
"We'll get what we need today. Then we'll finish up the plans."

"You know it's a suicide mission, right? The whole going out together like the old good times thing. Screw the plans."

The younger smiled sadly and nodded.  
"Isn't that the whole point of it?"

"Refusing reality and driving into the sunset with one hand on the wheel and the other on the shotgun? Yeah, I kind of dig that. Especially if I can do it to the tune of _Houses of the Holy_ or _Carry on my wayward son_ or, hell, why not _For Whom the Bell Tolls_?"  
Dean smiled at the vision he had in his head, but soon he found himself slowly dragged back to reality by the way Sam was looking at him.  
"... what?"

The taller opened his mouth to say something but decided not to.  
"Never mind. Just tell me where you're keeping my guns."


	14. Trust and Compromise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than usual, for reasons.

Something was still bothering Dean when he left the cabin soon after Sam, intending to look for Castiel before heading for the vehicles they'd picked for the upcoming raid. He made his way through the grounds, feeling the sun's rays warming his back. Having showered and changed into clean clothes felt like heaven to him, one of the small joys of life that still hadn't been taken from him. Through it all, he was relieved of one extra thing as well - Sam's standing. He had been given a community of survivors, yet he still had come to Dean to ask him to leave with him, despite the fact that Dean had abandoned him and left him alone when he most needed him to stay. He didn't know if Sam knew who exactly he'd become, but at least the younger had a good idea, and still he chose to have faith in Dean. Dean knew he didn't deserve half of that trust.  
So what was it that bothered him? It wasn't about Sam, not anymore at least - he was at peace with the fact that Sam could turn out to be the death of him, and that didn't matter, the time he'd had with Sam, another chance, was well worth dying for.

As he pushed aside the wooden beads and stepped inside the now fresh-smelling cabin, looking around for Castiel but finding no one, he was still digging up the reason he felt hollow. When he turned around, mildly discomfortable with the angel's disappearance, he nearly bumped into Chuck - and then, instinctively, almost punched him in the face.  
Chuck stared at him. He'd just as instinctively half-dodged the hit that had never come.

"There's a carful of survivors -"  
  
"I know," Dean cut him off, "I don't think they want me to come and greet them, Chuck. I've been giving them the pleasure of knowing I'm a coward these days. Have you seen Castiel?"

"Yes, Dean, but you really -"

"No. I will, later - once I'm sure they won't shoot me in the head. I have too many unfinished things to be executed today. So if you can grant me that wish."  
They glared at each other. Chuck had at some point formed a spine of his own, and it nearly made Dean proud to see. Finally, he sighed and shrugged.  
"What is it you want?" he asked the prophet.

"I want you to apologise. I know, it won't mean anything, but you can't hide like a beaten dog either. They're all waiting for it. "  
  
"Apology doesn't change a thing," Dean replied, "And it won't make them think any higher of me. I don't deserve their forgiveness either, so why should I seek for it? This is what I've become, Chuck. I'm the lowest scum of the camp and we both know it. In fact, you shouldn't even be talking to me, you might catch whatever it is that I have and end up down here."

Chuck rolled his eyes. He was blocking Dean's way out, and it was making the taller feel strange, since the man in front of him had never had much presence, and definitely not enough to make a stand like this.  
"I insist, Dean. Come with me and be a man about it, you need to face them. Even you know that."  
"Yes, I do, but as I said -"  
"Don't you make excuses with me," Chuck cut him off with a stare that made Dean's voice die on him.

He opened his mouth to argue, but he really had nothing to say, and weirdly enough he felt like suddenly the man in front of him was not the man he thought he'd known. There was something about him that was making Dean extremely uncomfortable right there and then - a similar presence he'd learned to associate with powerful supernatural beings. It made him want to grab an angel sword and thrust it right into the guy's guts, which was probably the strangest thing about the whole situation, as usually his initial instinct was to pull out a gun.  
Unwillingly he accepted that he simply couldn't argue with the other, and with that, he closed his mouth again.  
"Fine," he said after a moment of uncomfortable silence, "but I really need to find Castiel."

"I know," Chuck said cheerfully and looking satisfied, and the strange aura he'd had for a moment was gone as if it had never existed, "I'll point you in his direction once you've said hello to everyone you nearly killed, had a cup of coffee and explained the plan you hopefully have, because the one Jack came up with is... well, it's quite terrible. We need your brains out there."  
  
"Out or in?" Dean grimaced as they stepped outside to the porch.  
The temperature was rising, and the scent of the morning had gone and turned into the scent of a young summer's day instead.

"Inside your skull, preferably, but with us in the main cabin. I made the list as well, it has everything on it, and it's quite a bit of things actually."

Sam joined them as they neared the main cabin. He didn't say a word but the look he exchanged with Dean seemed genuinely surprised. Dean pointed at Chuck and rolled his eyes before hopping up the couple steps in front of the door and pulling it open without giving himself any time for preparing. Any extra time he'd take would only make him regret the decision, and nonetheless, it would be like the last time he'd charged in anyway. He simply didn't know what to expect.  
And the moment he saw them there, the thing he hadn't expected was his own reaction. He was genuinely happy to see them all alive.  
  
"Son of a bitch," he mumbled under his breath when Chuck passed him.

The prophet crossed the room and hopped on his usual chair by the wall. Sam stood behind Dean between the door through which the sounds of birds were coming in clearly.  
Feet numb, Dean took a few steps inside and attempted a smile. It appeared that nobody had neither expected him to turn up, even though Chuck had clearly told them he'd try his best, nor for him to actually know how to smile.

"Are you trying to not get shot? Because if that's it, it's not working," Jane spoke.  
She threw her hair back and sipped black coffee out of a worn-looking cup.

"Nice job at not killing Lucifer, by the way," Damian added and crossed his hands under his chin, "I especially like the plot twist where you brought his vessel in and thought that none of us know what the fucker looks like. That's him. I've seen Lucifer. And yeah, I heard how he's making himself all cozy in here, but let me just say that if it wasn't for Lotus here, I'd have blown his motherfucking head off the moment I saw his face."

Sam shifted behind Dean, who was simply grinning at the statement. He pushed aside the adrenaline that had launched a fullblown invasion of his state of mind at the threat aimed at Sam, knowing it was an attack on him rather than his brother.  
"Well, good that we have Lotus here, then, because I kind of like your face the way it is, and if you'd try to shoot Sam, Sam would probably give you a full makeover before you'd even know what hit you," he stated in a threateningly cheerful tone of voice.  
Damian rolled his eyes at him, turning to stare intensively at Sam instead.  
"Bitch," Dean added quietly under his breath, glancing at Sam behind him like the other man had before then pulling up a chair and settling on it.  
Sam closed the door but stayed right in front of it. He was examining Damian quietly, and Damien seemed discouraged by his calmness.

"Where's Cas? Did you kill him too? I heard Risa's dead, anyway. Probably because you got tired of fucking her," the man took another shot at Dean's defenses.  
Dean raised a brow at him.

"He did get tired of fucking her, if I can tell anything by that bitemark on his neck and the fact that she's dead so she wasn't there to bite him," Jane said casually, nodding towards Dean, "So who is it now? It wasn't me either, because of... what was I doing? Oh, yeah, _fighting for my life_ because that asshole thought we're just lambs up for sacrifice. I watched them tear Alex apart, Dean. So how did you like the sex? Was it good?"

"Who the hell fucked you?" Lotus asked surprisedly.

"None of your goddamn businesses," Dean smiled and leaned his elbows on his knees, letting his hands hang down from his lap before turning towards Damian, "and as for the original question, no, Cas is not dead, he's actually doing pretty good for a guy who got shot in the stomach. Anything else?"

He noticed the look of sudden enlightenment on the short-haired woman's features and decisively ignored it, hoping Lotus wasn't feeling up to letting everyone know what she'd just figured out. She didn't, at least she wasn't going to announce it publicly there and then, and when Dean realised that, he looked at her and gave her a small smile. She rolled her eyes and pointed at Sam, who caught up with their unspoken conversation but had no idea what they were messaging to one another about.

Dean grinned. For once there was an actual bright side to someone carrying a torch for his brother - Lotus seemed to have caught up on the way Sam didn't necessarily enjoy them tearing Dean a new one right in front of him, even when he did deserve it.

"Nothing?" Dean finally asked in a disbelieving voice.  
Had they really not taken the time to make up more insults for him?  
"So can we put our differences and my doucheness aside for just the while? Chuck asked me to come here so we can form a plan that doesn't involve killing everyone this time, and I'd really like to get it done before we're late. How late are we, Chuck?"

"My probably reliable clock says it's seven, so... not very late yet," the writer answered with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Good. So let's schedule departure at nine. That's somewhere to start from. Anyone opposed to letting me figure a draft here?"

Adam coughed, and Dean looked at him for a while. The black man finally raised his eyes up to him, wet his lips with a passing lick and tilted his head to apply additional weight to his words.  
"As long as you aren't leading the raid."

"Fine, that's cool with me. For all I care, you can lead it, as long as you don't solo too much because if you do, I'm going to have to improvise, which, knowing me, means that I'll start leading. If it's alright with everyone - which I assume is, because currently you lot are listening to me like I'm still the boss. And that, by the way, is bad news for your independency."

Adam chuckled and shook his head, falling quiet and returning to stare at his bread rather solemnly.

"So, let's start, then. We need somewhere to start looting from, and it better not be under army control. Someone, get me the map - Jack, any idea, have the troops changed patrol patterns since the 13th?"


	15. Broken Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it’s still Monday for all ye suckers, but for me, it’s Pig ‘n a Poke already. So, chapter. Also, this has finally broken the magical limit of 50 000 words published. I’m feeling the heat at 88 000 written and I don’t like it. Must work harder to keep the distance.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Chuck nodded at Dean with a proud smile on his face, almost like he'd been rooting for Dean in some sort of a fight or a game that he'd just won. Wordlessly, he pointed him in a direction and formed the letters of "shed" with his lips. Dean raised brows at him, but he just winked and turned away, returning to the noisy room behind. Dean had given himself one hour of time before they'd man the vans and get on with the plan. He'd increased the population to each van by one now that they had people to spare - four out of the seven who had returned were injured, but that still gave them enough people to look after the camp for that day even if Dean did take a couple more with him.

Clouds were gathering on the previously clear sky, but it wasn't the sort of a front that'd rain down anytime soon, as it was too white and too high up. The weather was still warm although the wind was getting stronger by the minute, and Dean made a point out of wearing an extra shirt under the jacket for the raid. He wrapped his arms around himself to keep the chilly wind at bay, as even if it wasn't cold yet, _he_ would get cold soon enough as he was still only wearing a light t-shirt, and he'd just gotten out of the warmest cabin in the area. It was a surefire way to make himself uncomfortable much too soon for his liking.

As he approached the shed, he wasn't seeing much out of the usual. The door was padlocked so there was no way the angel was inside it, and as he didn't show up anywhere outside it either, Dean was quite sure he'd already moved somewhere else - probably his cabin - before he even reached the door. Just to make sure, he opened the padlock and peeked inside anyway, as in some twisted way it was entirely possible that Chuck had locked him in there to use him for bait in case Dean refused to come with him, but unsurprisingly, the shed was empty. Now that he was there, however, Dean took a moment to look through the pile of things Sam had dug up for him, letting out an approving chuckle as he realised that everything he needed was indeed right there. If he'd had time to do it, seeing the pile would have been quiet enough to inspire him to continue working on the car, but now he'd need to save that for later. Perhaps he'd find something to fix the engine with too. He'd keep his fingers crossed and eyes wide open for that.  
He padlocked the door again when he stepped out, stopping there to watch the surrounding forest while he planned a new course of action. He could go to his cabin first, get all ready for the raid: pack up with guns and ammunition, find a fitting extra shirt, and maybe even fix the military belt that needed a new buckle, as it would take a maximum of ten minutes to accomplish. Then he'd head for Castiel's cabin and seek the male out, ask him if there was anything he needed, or in case he wouldn't be there Dean could just skip that part entirely, as Chuck had most likely worked his magic on the angel and everything he needed was already on the list of things they were going after anyway.

The tall cedar trees shook in the wind and a blackbird was singing somewhere further away, its clear, flutelike voice echoing between the trunks in the open space like in a hall. It made Dean remember flashes of times they'd stopped with Sam somewhere in the middle of nowhere, either to take a piss or sleep, sometimes to eat and grab some fresh air while they were at it. He remembered the calmness of those moments, the tones of their voices and Sam's smile, but nothing in particular, no specific places or conversations they'd had. He missed the little things like that, when they could stop somewhere quiet and still have elsewhere to head for. And maybe there was still someplace that was like the cities and towns they'd headed for after, where the virus hadn't yet wrecked everything. The difference was that those places were like prisons, walled and defended by armed troops twenty-four hours a day, and nobody went out. Dean didn't know for sure how many safespots remained for humanity, but he knew one thing; they weren't all that many.  
Mostly it was the military camps, forts and smaller spots like theirs that were guarded by arms and paranoia. If there were survivors who still lived the normal way, they were probably living somewhere abnormal to begin with, like some remote place in the mountains or way up north, somewhere so reclusive that nobody was in contact with them, ever.  
  
A dry laughter escaped the man as he stood there and imagined the tribe on their island somewhere he'd once read an article about. Nobody knew anything about them because they killed everything that got close enough to see them. They were so aggressive that people had given up trying to contact them - they were probably already so croatoan-like that the virus didn't even need to get them to have its purpose fulfilled.  
With a sigh, Dean pulled his feet up off the ground and started walking back to his cabin. That was when he saw Castiel. The angel peered up at him from between the tall yellow grass growing at the spot, having made himself quite comfortable by the shed's wall. He lifted a finger up to his lips and motioned Dean closer.

"The hell are you doing here?" Dean asked him, keeping his volume low.

"I'm waiting," Castiel replied indifferently, "Why were you laughing alone?"  
Dean raised a brow at him, kneeled onto the ground and noticed there was a hole that lead underneath the shed right in front of where Castiel was sitting and staring at. Castiel noticed him looking at it.  
"It's the only way in or out," the angel explained, even though Dean had no idea why this was important at all.

"Right," the younger muttered unimpressedly, then looked at Castiel in a somewhat worried manner, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Dean," the brunette chuckled and waved his worries aside like they were a lost fly buzzing by his ear, "I imagine you were looking for me?"

Dean gave up.  
"Yeah, I was, actually. Just wanted to ask if there's something you want since we're leaving in an hour."

Castiel creased his brows a little, his eyes upon the hole again. He licked his lips and brought a hand up to his neck, rubbing at it absently for a moment.  
"You could find me a few things," he said then, his eyes flickering about Dean's profile before shooting back towards the tunnel, "Namely milk formula, fish oil and plain canned meats."  
  
Dean's brains froze. He closed his eyes and frowned, then looked at Castiel again.  
"What, are you going to adopt a cat?"

Castiel tilted his head and shrugged.  
"Who knows?" he said with a smile, "Perhaps."

His reply left Dean gaping. Then the younger made a yielding face and climbed back up.  
"Fine," he huffed, "I'll get you kitten stuff. Want a ball of yarn while I'm at it? Because that'd definitely top the deal."

"Dean, cats can swallow yarn, it's very bad for them. Sometimes it blocks the intestine."

Dean stared at the angel for a moment and decided he was out of his mind.  
"Okay, sure, whatever you say, Doctor Dolittle. Milk formula, fish oil and canned meats, I'm on it. Anything else? Because this is sort of your chance to bribe me."

Castiel smiled at him briefly before adjusting himself into a half-lotus and going silent for a while again. When Dean was just about to give up on him and leave, he drew breath.  
"There's something I want to ask you about," he began.

"Okay, go ahead," Dean encouraged him, not sure what to expect.

"Actually," Castiel said and let out a lighthearted laugh, "there are quite a few things I want to ask you, but they can wait until later. Just two for now."  
  
"I'm all ears."

The angel licked his lips again and frowned thoughtfully.  
"Will you share my cabin again tonight even though you seem to be returning to your normal routines and I don't necessarily need your care any longer now that I'm not constantly on the verge of premature, or rather, unnatural death?"

Dean hesitated and then shrugged.  
"I don't see why not," he replied then, motioning aimlessly and minimalistically at nothing in particular, "I don't really miss my own rathole either."

"So my new age hellhole is more to your liking?"  
  
The younger grimaced.  
"If you want to put it that way."

Castiel seemed satisfied with his answer. He basked in it for a moment before carrying on.  
"Secondly, when you slept with me last night," he started, examining Dean calmly as he spoke, "Did you feel connected to me?"

Dean's lips parted, but he didn't really understand the question, so in place of words, out came a whistle of air instead. He scratched insecurely at the back of his neck and cocked his head to the side with a look of nearly apologetic confusion.  
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he admitted after considering it for a moment.

Castiel sucked at his lower lip and seemed thoughtful again, considering how to reword his question. It seemed to frustrate him that he couldn't come up with the right words. Dean wondered if his hippie group would have understood, and the thought depressed him as much as it pissed him off.  
Suddenly he realised that he was _jealous_ to them - he didn't despise them because they were useless, but because Castiel spent time with them, more often than not slept with them, and apparently _connected_ with them as well, whatever that word meant.  
  
"Did _you_ feel connected to _me_?" Dean repeated the question, his voice much more serious than he had intended it to be.

He watched the warm smile that spread across Castiel's face before he turned to look at the hole in front of him once more. Dean glanced at the sky and wished he knew how much time he'd wasted here before landing himself on the ground with a quiet thud. He watched Castiel, waiting for a reply, growing more and more anxious the longer it took for him to give him one.  
Finally the angel looked back at him, still wearing the smile that seemed much more genuine than those he'd pulled on for what seemed like forever by this point.  
"Yes," he said, "I did. And I felt connected to myself as well, strangely enough. In touch with who I truly am. I was hoping the experience felt similar to you as well."

Dean nodded with a sound that he hadn't consciously thought about letting out.  
"I did feel something along those lines," he recalled, understanding the question a little better than before, "Like I was more myself today than I was yesterday. Wow, that sounds crazy when I say it aloud."

"No," Castiel sighed relievedly, "It doesn't. You allowed yourself to trust, and that wasn't some minor achievement for someone who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders."

 _How do you get up in the morning?_ Dean's mind recalled the voice of a long-forgotten hallucination. He felt a crooked smile on his lips as he looked down at the grass below. Only now did he notice that the ground was still cool from all the moisture it had sucked over the recent rains.  
"There's more," he added then.

Castiel turned to look at him again, but Dean wasn't looking at him, he was looking at the black-and-grey whiskers that had appeared by the tunnel's mouth, trembling as the young cat smelled the outside air, unaware of being watched but very alert and ready to disappear again at the slightest movement or sound. Judging by the tiny nose, as much more wasn't visible to be accounted for, the kitten was at most five weeks old, possibly younger, perhaps up to only three weeks old if its parents had been larger in size.  
Dean rubbed at his shoulder and tried to remember how it had felt before Lucifer had stepped on him and turned his muscles to stone. Probably like nothing, in comparison to it now feeling like hell most the time.  
"It made me remember how you were before."

He glanced at Castiel for a reaction. The angel seemed mildly taken aback for a moment before taking the answer in.  
"Who I am," he then said.  
  
The kitten was gone again.

"No," Dean sighed, "Who you were. Not this you. The angel you."

The glance Castiel threw at him was mildly offended.  
"I know what you meant, Dean. But I wish you could understand how much of what you see is subjective, and the full picture is quite different from what is immediately visible to you. For example, when you look at Lotus, Beatrice, Cindy, Nora and Vera, you see a bunch of empty-headed girls who went crazy with the apocalypse and love the cock so much that's all they think of. You couldn't be more wrong, but you refuse to take a better look. The Lotus you've seen recently - I've heard - is much closer to the truth than what you've allowed yourself to see before."

"Get to the point."

"This is my point, Dean. You refuse to see who I am. You wish to see me as this ruin, as something that once _was_ but long since stopped being. You treat me like a stranger who wears the same skin as the angel you knew. I _am_ the angel, Dean. I am not dead yet. Your need to shelter yourself and push away those who know the real you almost got me killed, though - twice now, as you were very close to letting me die of the infection when Sam was returned to you. Something changed in you when you made the decision to take care of me, even though you despised me and you had something better in store for yourself. That change has grown in you, and last night you proved that you are still capable of connecting, at least when it benefits you."

Dean was completely dumbfounded by what Castiel spoke, unable to say anything to it. At times, he wanted to cut him off, but with what? Denial?  
Castiel was looking at him, and his expression was concerned.

"On rare occasion, you show compassion and are willing to take the time to let someone else know that they're important, if not to you specifically then just simply that they have value, in general, to anything; the cause, the community, as moral compasses or at the most basic level, as human beings. You've sacrificed a good night's sleep to sit by my side when I needed you there, which means you are still willing to do a good deed where it doesn't directly benefit you."

The angel looked away again, and Dean noticed the whiskers back at the tunnel's mouth.

"I thought you were a lost case. That's what drove me deep. What hurt the most was seeing you grow to hate me, and how you belittled my attempts at reaching out to you and how you turned me down when I offered advice. The me you've seen all this time is my coping mechanism. Yours is the drink and pretending you don't give a damn, that people are nothing but numbers and means to an end, and mine is drowning myself in decadence and pretending I enjoy it. That is not you, and that isn't me. So when you slept with me last night, you were sleeping with a broken thing, but that broken thing is still the angel that fell for you, Dean. At any point, I could have chosen to leave like the other angels did. I stayed behind - for you. I fell for you. I gave up my very life for you, and I've become this ruin _for_ you. What I want you to ask yourself is if the angel you touched last night is something you want to fight for. If it's not, then you will let me die - perhaps not today or tomorrow, but one day, I will be worthless to you, and on that day, you will let me die. You got very close when you sent me off as a bait for the croats. Nothing but a twist of fate gave us another chance."

Dean watched the kitten push its small, fuzzy, black-and-grey striped head out the hole for just one moment before it disappeared into darkness again. He swallowed thickly. What could he say to all that? Even though the sun was still shining and the wind had died down for the moment, he felt colder than before and a shiver ran through his spine, leaving him with goosebumps and his hair standing up.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked, mouth dry like it was full of sand, "What do you want me to do?"  
  
Castiel's finger brushed his hand and he looked back at him, seeing a pleading look in his clear eyes. Their colour seemed electrified again, as if a light was burning behind them.

"Think," he said quietly, "for starters. But if I can ask for something else, then perhaps don't hesitate touching me when you next find yourself in my bunk."

He topped the sentence with a full turn in his presence, his expression changing to a smirk and chasing away the seriousness and weight of what he'd said before. Dean felt like the air was easier to breathe again, and he noticed he was thankful for one thing in specific about the new Castiel; he knew when the conversation was over, and like most people, he knew how to lighten up the mood when it was necessary.

Yet somehow, it still made him sad. As he stood up with a grin and a mocking sentence, he knew the things Castiel had said would haunt him through the day.


	16. A Brave New World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably one of the most depressing chapters I've ever written. Welcome to the United Wastelands of America 2014.

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Dean hopped into the back of the van and heaved his bag in after him. Sam followed him inside, bending over so as to not hit his head to the car's roof. It still came close enough.  
"There's a sign," Sam noted as Adam slammed the doors closed behind them and walked around the van, soon hopping onto the passgenger's seat next to Jack, "says there's a camera surveillance on the area. Isn't that - bad?"

Jack shot a glance at them through the rear mirrow, grinning as he started the car and turned it towards the opened gate.  
"We took care of those cameras a long time ago, they're feeding the loop from months before we got here," he shouted his reply over the engine's sound and the noise of gravel grinding against the wheels, "They know nuthin' back at the offices, if they even care anymore. They sent a scout once. He, uh, got caught by the croats, or that's what we let them think anyhows."

From the front window Dean could see the white, battered back of the van leading them by a few shaking as the wheels hit a bump in the road. Adam cursed under his breath when they followed the example, if still a little more carefully than the others had.  
The front car was manned by Nate, the driving 40-years-old ex-werewolf hunter, Grant, a thirty and something ex-office worker turned a loose gun turned a loyal protector of the camp, Beatrice who had insisted to come with them, and Jane, who had decided to never let Dean out of her sight again on a mission. The things that had happened between Dean and Castiel after Dean had told Chuck he didn't want anything to do with Beatrice nor any of the other women that had formed Castiel's sex circle had changed his mind about that, and even if he'd still have preferred for them to stay the hell out of his way, he was at least willing to think of the situation objectively now. Truth was that Beatrice was capable. She had practiced at the range behind the cabins by the edge of the forest when Dean had come out of his cabin, and she was good. Good was what they needed - daytime was Croatoan time. Their eyes were human, night didn't fit them very well, so going out during sunlight was always a risk. However, Dean much preferred the croats to the army, and the army had a thing for skulking in the dark. They sent people to take down those who disobeyed the commands to stick to safe zones, and anyone found outside the hot zones who hadn't got a permission - and they knew the few who did, because they were in full army equipment and more often inside tanks than not - was shot without questions, and the deaths were marked down as casualties of the virus. More often than not, the people out of hot zones weren't infected. They were people like Dean and his group who didn't want the Orwellian system that went on with the government. They were the outlaws, the resistance, the ones who roamed with the croats.  
Dean laid down his head, pressing his palms against his forehead. He was so tired it was getting ridiculous. He was still functioning well on a four hour sleep schedule, the problem was that he hadn't even been getting that. No, he had barely had an hour of rest ever since he'd dragged his ass back to the camp. He couldn't say he regretted the sex, but he could have used the time better. Given the choice, however, he would have ended up in this same crap all over again, which seemed to be a recurring theme in his life.

"Dean?" Sam called out, his voice not audible to the front due to the engine's loudening sound as the car sped up.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"I was thinking," the younger chuckled, "You remember our first case together as a team? Without dad and all?"

"Yeah - that bitch who drowned her kids and possessed my Baby, sure do remember her."

"You fell off the bridge."  
Sam's voice was amused, and Dean didn't know whether he was grimacing at that or the memory of falling.

"You got molested," he threw back, "and drove Impala through a wall. What a jerk."

"Did I?" Sam asked, and when Dean looked at him, he was grinning unbelievingly, "I think I did."

"Yeah, you sure did, and man was I pissed at you. Why'd you ask?"

"No, just that... how it all started. You asked me to come with you. Said you hadn't asked anything from me before, implied I owed it to you. Man, if I had known just what I got myself into."  
Dean raised a brow and tilted his head indecisively.  
"Retrospectively, yeah, I did ask quite a bit. Sure didn't know that back then."

"If you'd had, though," Sam continued, and Dean knew he was getting to the point, "Would you still have asked?"

Dean swallowed. He wanted to say no, of course not, but he wasn't so sure. He feared being alone. When dad had left him, went off and disappeared with his obscure notes and hints and implied he was to follow a trail scattered in front of him like bread crumbles, he'd been terrified. He'd went to Sam because he needed him, and he had wanted Sam to feel that he needed him too. Sam hadn't. Ever since, he'd dragged his little brother on, and it had all come down to this. He looked into his brother's eyes and the answer was clear to him.  
"Yeah," he replied calmly, "I would have."

Sam lifted his brows and leaned forwards, his elbows digging to his legs.  
"Then why did you ditch me?"

Dean shrugged.  
"I thought I'd changed."

"And that I had?"  
  
"Not really. I don't think so, anyway. Rather, I think I thought I'd finally understood that you wouldn't, and made all sorts of excuses to make myself believe that if I sent you off, we could return things to the way there were. I don't know what the hell snapped in me but I guess it seemed reasonable back then, even with the apocalypse raging I was pretty self-centered in my thinking. I mean, if we weren't together, maybe the whole thing would just cease to be, the angels would give up and you'd return to the exams and I'd become our dad and drive off on my own."

Sam stared at him.  
"Really?"

"I don't know," Dean replied, his eyes merely flickering past Sam's features, "I really don't. I'm not all that sure what the hell was going on in my mind back then."

"So d'you think the... the other you...?"  
  
"Nah," Dean grunted with an expression of intense disgust, "The other me will go on and fuck it up just like I did, because he's me, and he's too good to listen to reason. Meanwhile, though, we really need to find some of these things..."  
The older pushed his fingers inside his pocket and pulled out a rugged-looking paper he'd hastily collected the off-the-list items onto. He handed it to Sam, who shifted on his bench to see better in the light that crossed the front seats to them.  
Adam and Jack bursted laughing at a joke that Dean hadn't heard, and the black male's voice was loud like thunder as he commented on it. Jack slammed his hand on the wheel and bent his head back, his laughter like the voice of a panicked jackal.  
  
"Milk formula?" Sam asked, raising brows at Dean.

"Oh, crap, yeah," Dean laughed, remembering the first three items on top of the list, "Cas is back to normal. I mean, normal for _current_ him, anyway. Popping amphetamines and adopting kittens. The latter's a new development, but I can't say I wasn't expecting it."  
  
Sam stared at him for a moment before returning to the list.  
"Wow," he muttered, "He sure has changed."

*

The problem with looting raids was that they couldn't ditch the cars far back. They had to drive in full sight, and for that, someone had to scout ahead - they simply couldn't afford to drive around blind and hope there was neither a pack of croats up ahead waiting for them nor an army patrol approaching. Jack took care of the army. They had five working military radios tuned in for the messages, and Jack was a decoding genius, which was why he handled most of the work in relation to the army. He didn't need pen and paper, he simply listened to the messages that were often nothing but bleeps and static noise, and somehow understood what they meant. Dean didn't care how he did it. He'd never once failed and that was good enough.  
Beatrice was out with Grant, they were the scouts. They walked in front of the cars following them, far enough to stop them or turn them in time to avoid an ambush. It was slow, and this was what took them most time, not the actual looting or even fighting the packs they did find. They never risked the military, not even when heading out for other purposes than looting. They knew better than that. Compared to the fully armed and armored soldiers they were just one step above the hordes of the infected, easy to squash if only they could be caught first. Avoiding getting caught was the key.

Adam was cleaning his gun with a bored expression on his face on the front seat as Jack mouthed words voicelessly, his expression changing from time to time as Dean watched them through the mirror. Sam was sitting on the floor, he'd given up with the seat when they'd gotten on the broken asphalt road. He looked like he could have been sleeping with his eyes open, but every now and then he turned his eyes towards something that Dean wasn't seeing. Dean, on the other hand, was only fighting sleep, concentrating on anything that offered more excitement than the opposite wall provided him with.  
  
The first stop was at a repair shop they'd marked on the map a few weeks earlier. There was still plenty to restock from, and they carried everything they found in quantities that should last them a couple months. Midway through the stocks they were surprised by a couple of croatoans slipping past the guard merely because they had decided to lurk in the bathroom of the shop's back room, and charged out while Dean was slipping cans of fruit inside a bucket previously filled with nails and screws. Sam shot them before Dean could figure out where to place the bucket. To his great surprise, the younger did lift his hand when he offered a high-five.

Next they crept around the block slowly like snails stuck in a desert, trying to find a grocery store that still had goods left. They finally found one, broken into and void of food, but still somewhat dependable in terms of hygienia products and kitchenware, water containers and even one bedroll that had been crushed against the wall by a fallen shelf. The place had a thick smell of death, and Beatrice soon found out why, as when she was fishing out a fallen, untouched packed toothbrush from under a shelf, her eyes caught a glimpse of a child's corpse just a couple feet from it. The kid had crawled behind the shelf and died of who knows what in a fetal position. The decay had ruined the packaging of the brush, and when she got back on her feet, she walked right out of the shop to throw up. When she came back, she looked different, like a soldier who had just seen her comrades fall around her, saved by nothing but sheer luck or misfortune of others. She looked at Dean as she passed him, went to the shelf she'd seen the child under, and knocked the whole thing over.  
A couple of rats charged across the room.

They left soon after.

As they packed their findings into the car, Dean tried to recall the last time he'd seen a living child. There had been three pregnancies on the camp - two herbal abortions and one miscarriage. He wondered if the numbers were as grim elsewhere, but knowing humanity, wherever it was possible, people were still breeding like no tomorrow, because it was entirely plausible to think that there was no tomorrow. Continuation of the species was merely one more opportunistic infection that struck whenever times got rough.

There were things they wouldn't get from the city, like fresh meats, herbs and vegetables. Those resources were strictly controlled by the army and none was left lingering in the abandoned cities aside an occasional box of poisoned food left behind by the human trappers, soldiers and mercenaries whose main job was to destroy whatever life was still outside the controlled areas.  
As much as they all wanted to believe otherwise, they were slowly running out of things that didn't grow wild in the forest. Fresh meat was rare to come by, even with the deer breeding out of control now that humanity had better things to do than control their population. Wild boars had sensed opportunity during the past year and their numbers had steadily increased, and the more encounters the camp's hunters had with them, the less they had with prey that didn't tear a person limb to limb should they fail the shot. Fish was still plenty, and that was what they mostly ate. Dean had barely had the time to spend by the lake, but he'd enjoyed even the days when the waters were quiet and he had to return to the camp with little to spare. It was commonplace for at least three of them to visit the lake for their own meals on a daily basis, and if they caught enough, they shared. Sometimes when there was little else to eat, they stayed fishing the entire day, providing as much food as they could for the community. Unfortunate for Jane, as she happened to be allergic to fish. She'd often enough went with nothing but canned beans for weeks at a time. She never complained about it.

Their wares of potatoes, carrots and cabbage were also dying out. They simply couldn't produce enough to make up for the amount they ate, and Chuck had recently requested they stopped eating them altogether for the rest of the season so as to gather as much as they could for winter - the last thing they could afford was for next year to have nothing growing in the makeshift fields. They'd die of starvation, even with all the fish they could pull out of the lake.

When the rest went digging through an empty-looking pharmacy, Dean slipped off on his own. He forced open the rusty hood and dug under it, and with what limited tools he'd brought with him pulled out everything that could be somehow turned useful, either for Impala - even though that was a very unlikely thought, given that the car he was raiding was at least twenty years younger than the Chevrolet - or any other of their cars. The only things that were readily available in their brand new world were car parts. They were literally everywhere. It was another thing entirely whether or not they were still usable.

One thing they were definitely running out of was medication. Dean saw immediately from the faces of the others when they returned that the pharmacy was empty. The places they should have been looking from weren't in the shops, however; they were in the abandoned flats and houses of people long since gone. The issue with this was that each and every apartment was a death trap, and more often than not, even if they did survive it, they wouldn't come out with anything at all. At times they stumbled across a dealer, someone who came out with a red flag tied around their body as a signal of being clean of infection and able to trade goods, but most of the things they carried were homemade recreational drugs. Painkillers were still around but too expensive to buy, which was why they hardly spared any for anyone who could survive without or who wouldn't survive even with them. The latter were medicated with a bullet to the head and the former simply had to get by somehow. Painkillers were for people with injuries like Castiel's, people who would survive and could contribute if only their pain was dulled. Antibiotics were long gone. Heart medication had ran dry last season, they'd lost a good man to that, and other vital medicines like insulin shots were so expensive that in general anyone who needed those had no other option but to choose a comfortable corner to curl up and die in.

When the sun was already turning to a warm shade of orange and they'd spilled the blood of at least twenty croats in and out of stores and the odd occasional apartment they considered worth the risk, they finally found a red flag who traded some of their loot to a small bag of potatoes and yesterday's international newspaper, possibly traded from the military base that was well fed on information. Information was another scarce resource. The last time Dean had heard anything from the outside world that wasn't from Jack's decodings was when he'd crawled up after a tank and picked up a page that had flown off of a soldier's grip when he'd reached for a gun to kill the croat that had chased Dean behind a corner. It could have been three weeks since by now, and what his page had said was that a truck of resources up to New York had been compromised and discarded, that the president had delayed the talks of bombing of Houston in light of news from Paris, and that a revision of the law on trading resources illegally had turned the former penalty of confiscating said resources to confiscation and execution with no trial.  
Now when their van finally turned around and headed out of the high risk zone, it seemed that Houston had been bombed and that Australia was still fighting off the virus more efficiently than previously expected. That made Dean smile - Australia. Was there anything he wouldn't have given to be in Australia, picking up a fight where it still mattered.

"What are you grinning at?" Sam asked, trying to peer over his shoulder at the newspaper's front page.  
Dean turned it just enough for him to see, tapping the headline with his finger.  
"Australia's still kicking," he stated victoriously and pulled the page back up towards his face.

Sam shifted closer to him, almost knocking over the bucket of nails. Dean pushed his foot against it to stop the catastrophe from happening. Sam's warmth radiated against him as the man leaned against his side to read the page in the ever fading evening sunlight.

"How many candles did we find again?" Jack asked nobody in particular but throwing the question across the seats implying he was probably aiming the brothers with it.

"We didn't," Dean shot back at him, "We found materials. Wax and wicks, things Cas would sell his soul for if only he had one."

"Cool," Jack confirmed, "And light bulbs?"  
Adam was again cleaning his gun. It seemed to make him feel more in control. He'd done a good job at leading them on today, effortlessly calling the stops and time for each destination. They'd managed to find most of the things they'd needed.

"Around twenty unused, fifteen used that looked like they might work," Sam answered.

Dean licked his dry lips and tasted dust on them. He turned the page on the newspaper, trying to skim through as many topics on it as possible before he'd unevitably run out of light. When his eyes ached in the effort to read the pages, he finally handed it to Sam, who looked at him frustratedly because he did very little with a newspaper he couldn't read any more than Dean could, all the way until Dean laid his head upon his shoulder and curled up against him.

"Don't let me fall onto the stuff," the older muttered.

He heard the annoyance in Sam's breathing settle as he realised that Dean really did need his nap. It didn't take long for the car around him to slowly fade into a series of violent bumps in a sea of the sound of wheels counting miles on the asphalt.


	17. Lucifer, For Good Luck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, for the sake of continuity, I need to tone down this publication business. Moving onto Tuesdays now and trying to use the rest for actually writing instead of checking the calendar for "WHEN CAN I RELEASE ANOTHER CHAPTER!?????!?!??"

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Dean could barely help unload the car, as his arms seemed to have lost their strength. When everything was unevenly stacked on the ground behind the two vans, the gate was chained close and everyone expected him to help carry at least some of the things inside, he chose the easy way out and brought everything that went to Castiel's cabin as well as some of the lighter things he could throw in the shed on his way through the grounds.  
He wished Sam a good night and went on his way, stumbling on what seemed like every third step. The cool wind shook the trees in the dark and their shapes formed thick, unpenetrable black walls all around Dean like the borders of a video game's map, looking like even if he'd for some reason wanted to walk past them, they would have turned out to be solid like stone. Castiel had planted a candle on his porch. Its flickering light welcomed Dean in through the beads - the door was still open.

He laid down the box where he'd put the things Castiel had asked for and a couple new water containers. He noted that many of the ones that had been empty before were now full of water again, and since he knew that Castiel hadn't been able to carry anything with his injury, someone else had helped him do it.  
"Cas?" he called out when he straightened up again, stepping into the warm cabin.  
The main room was full of candles, lighting up every surface but still leaving the place looking dark. Castiel was sitting on the floor on one of the pillows. In the candlelight Dean couldn't judge whether it was the purple or the green one. They looked equally black. On his lap, he was holding the kitten he'd apparently managed to fish out from under the shed, and he was stroking it slowly and gently along its curled body with just two of his fingers. In comparison to the small animal, his hands were huge.

"Welcome home, Dean," he greeted the younger in a warm voice, "Would you sit down with me for a moment, or are you too tired?"

"I'm too tired, man," Dean sighed, but he still stopped by what was most likely the wine red pillow, landing heavily on it.  
He yawned and stretched his arms, wishing he could crack his neck to relieve the stiffness, but he was certain it would have hurt more than it would have helped, so he restrained from doing so.  
"So does it have a name yet?"

"Is it commonplace for people to give names to animals?"

"Uh, yeah. I've never met anyone who had a cat that didn't have a name."  
Dean licked his lips and wished he had a beer.  
"You should call it something ironic, like Sarah Palin - or Lucifer. It'd bring us good luck."

Castiel stared at him for a moment before returning his gaze to the kitten. Dean could hear it purring to where he was sitting.

"My brother would be most delighted to hear we not only adopted his vessel but also named a cat in his honour," the angel spoke quietly.

"I think he'd appreciate the irony alright. Begs the question, where the hell is he? Maybe we should send a card."  
Dean wasn't sure why he was poking this subject. A part of him was burning with the need to know how Castiel reacted to it, and so far, what he was seeing wasn't really giving him the answers he wanted. The other simply kept petting the kitten like the subject had nothing to do with him at all. Then, just when Dean was considering going to bed after all, he raised his head, picked the kitten up and laid it on Dean's lap instead.

The cat let out a quiet, vibrating meow, peered around fearfully and attempted to return to Castiel, but Dean instinctively laid a hand in front of it to stop it where it was, and it let out another meow, hovering uncertainly by the spot it had been stopped at. Finally it seemed to decide it wasn't such a scary spot at all, circled a couple times and curled up again. It was a warm-feeling weight on top of Dean's weary legs and something about it calmed him down as well. He examined its striped, fuzzy form, the tiny triangle ears and the short, dark tail where the base light grey colour was almost entirely covered by the dark streaks.  
Its small whiskers shivered as it breathed, and merely by existing as was, it was regarded as a potential threat by Dean's immune system. He sniffed and found out that a distracted little smile had crept up on his face while he hadn't paid attention.  
   
Castiel had disappeared while Dean hadn't been paying attention, but when he looked around, he heard the older picking up things from near the door before moving through the beaded curtain, taking steps on the porch and returning inside. He closed the door behind him and Dean heard him lock it up for the first time in a while.  
When he reappeared by the doorway, Dean gave him a questioning look which he casually ignored as he made his way to the kitchenette. By the way it sounded, he was going to boil water - possibly to make the milk formula, although Dean couldn't be sure.  
In a moment, Castiel walked back to them, and Dean took note of the way his walking looked painful. It didn't surprise him. He shouldn't have been walking at all yet, but there he was. He'd put his body under a lot of unnecessary stress by simply getting out of the bed in the first place, and he had hardly stopped there.  
When he sat down, his expression changed from pained to relieved in a span of a few seconds, slow enough for them both to acknowledge it was happening. He turned his eyes back to Dean, and Dean pushed his hands under the kitten on his lap, making it meow pitifully again. He wrapped his fingers around its fragile, warm, shaking body and gave it back to Castiel. It seemed so much more comfortable with the angel. When Castiel's hands bent around it, it yawned, and when he laid it on his lap, it didn't hesitate curling up.

As Dean watched the kitten, Castiel was watching him.

"I was told you took Beatrice with you," Castiel finally started a new conversation, "I was surprised. What changed your mind?"  
  
Dean leaned back and rubbed at his neck. It was aching again, most likely because he was tired and all that lifting, carrying and crawling he'd done that day wasn't sitting well with the injury.  
"I saw her shooting at the range. She was pretty good."

Castiel nodded.  
"I wonder if I had an impact on you as well," he insinuated.  
Dean eyed him up and down, sighing. He shrugged and shook his head at the same time, unwilling to think about anything that night. Castiel nodded, apparently understanding what he meant. He picked a new subject, one that he seemed to be nearly equally curious about.  
"How did the mission go?"

"It was exhausting. Lots of croats, not so much loot. Everything's starting to be, well, gone," Dean reported in a weary voice, "We traded for some potatoes, and we found you a whole lot of supplies for making candles. How about your day? Not high anymore?"  
  
Castiel tilted his head in a very characteristic manner that seemed to hit Dean straight in the face with surprise. It probably showed from him, as the angel only tilted his head more and his brows knit closer together.  
"What do you mean?"

"Well, if you weren't tripping balls when I left, then I'm seriously concerned."

Castiel's fingers returned upon the kitten's fur and with that, the animal's low rythmic purring soon joined in to shape the sound scenery that surrounded them. Outside, the sound of crickets mixed in tune with the chiming bells.  
"I have not touched any of the substances since we returned here, Dean. I don't understand why you think I have, you've hardly given me time to even consider a fix."

Dean found himself mildly taken aback, but that was the only reaction surprise could prompt from his weary being.  
"And you're not feeling any - well – odd?"  
  
Castiel let out a laugh, returning from what had nearly been his old self right back to the current bitter creature.  
"Odd? Why, no, I just feel like good old Famine's back in town - and this place hardly has enough food to go around, so what can I do? Nothing. I keep craving a burger or a bowl of soup and when I don't have that, even leather starts looking like food, and I'm so tired, like I can't stay awake for a moment longer but there's no way this useless body could fall asleep when I close my eyes. And oh, did I already mention that the heart I never wanted is trying to beat its way out of this body, I have an on and off boner for nothing and I keep sweating out everything I drink, yet still have to take a piss every ten minutes? My life's a parade, Dean, and I would _kill_ for a fix."

This situation had just entered the ever lengthening list of the many times within the past few days that Dean simply had no reaction up and available for what he heard.  
"Your own damn fault," he finally grunted, taking the opportunity to feel good about at least one decision he'd made in his life.

"My fault?"  
Castiel licked his lips and opened his mouth, then his eyes strayed to something on the ceiling and he seemed to get lost in it for a second. When he resurfaced, he licked his lips again and turned his eyes to Dean with a piercing look in them.  
"Yes. The shape I'm in was definitely a choice I made, even currently a choice I am still actively making."

The cat on his lap shifted and curled up tighter.  
For a while, its soft purring was the only sound from inside the cabin. Soon, however, the sound of gently boiling water joined it, and Dean couldn't stop himself yawning. That seemed to break some sort of a spell between them, allowing speech once more.  
"So why don't you just go ahead, then?" he asked, not understanding why the older was staying off the drugs in the first damn place.

"Two reasons," Castiel responded tiredly, "First is simply that I am out of what I need. Restacking is unsurprisingly quite hard when you cannot leave the camp. Can you see me attempting a trade out there in the wild wide post-apocalyptic world with this hole in my stomach? Neither can I. Second reason should be glaring obvious to you and if it isn't, then maybe you need to reflect on yourself first and foremost. I would also like to think that at least we know for certain that a human body _can_ survive the withdrawals of chemical dependencies, which leaves me still in a better position than your brother."

Dean's brains were buzzing a constant emptiness. Finally he shook his head and got up, determined not to sacrifice a single more half-waking thought to any kind of addictions, least of all those of the supernatural sort.  
"There's a basket in the main cabin, in the pile of ditched things nobody finds use for. Could make a nice bed for little Luci there," he said, nodding at the kitten and excusing himself from the situation.

When he glanced over his shoulder after undressing and before diving into the warmth of the bed, he saw Castiel rubbing the kitten's stomach with his forefinger.  
Was he changing because of Dean?


	18. Daylight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The good news is that I've managed 20 000 new words since the last time we spoke. *clears throat*  
> The bad news is that I don't know whether that is enough to get me back on schedule.  
> The worst news is that this chapter is short and pointless.
> 
> The best news is the next chapter will be long as the Amazon river, and I'm considering posting it on Friday. We'll see.

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The clear, piercing voices of early blackbirds woke Dean up early in the morning. His skin registered the warmth of a body next to his, curled up very close with knees, elbows and arms pressing softly against his back. He opened his eyes slowly, examined the morning-lit room lazily and closed them again, drifting back and forth between light sleep and the waking world, ears turned to listen to the birds and the knocking sound from somewhere further away, like someone was digging through rocky and hard ground. Every now and then the familiar sound of wind bells reached his consciousness. The next time he opened his eyes was to something scratching the blanket he held tightly against his chest, and soon the black-and-grey kitten entered his field of vision, crossing the bed with large leaps until it reached a spot next to Dean's abdomen, where it curled up and fell asleep. In three minutes it was up again, and it climbed on top of Dean as if his body was a better place to sleep on than the bed. It breathed fast even while it slept.

Dean had no idea how much time had passed when the cat next moved off of him, but when it was gone, he was taken over by a need to turn around. Slowly he rolled over to his other side, managing to do it without waking up the male sleeping next to him. He watched him, realising this was the first time he'd ever really watched Castiel sleep. Sure, he had seen it before, but he'd never actually _seen_ , simply _looked_. The angel appeared younger somehow when he was resting, his expression peaceful, undisturbed. He was dreaming of something, but it seemed like a pleasant dream.  
Dean let his body fall back, his face turning towards the ceiling. Shadows played around it, the shapes filtered by the net-like curtains over the window. The sound of the shovel repeatedly hitting the ground had ceased and only the birds remained.  
As time crept sluggishly by, Dean started wondering how long he'd slept and whether or not he should consider getting up from the bed. The answer to the first question was most likely at least twice his normal amount of rest, since despite the fact that it had been dark when they'd arrived, it hadn't been late yet. He guessed he could have fallen asleep somewhere around ten in the evening and judging by the amount of light passing through the unison white blanket thrown across the skies, the time was nearing nine in the morning now, which would mean he'd slept at least nine hours, likely more. No wonder he was feeling reluctant about getting up at all. After first not sleeping nearly enough for a long while and then overdoing it, nobody was all ready and set for facing the day from the get-go.

Some softened portion of his psyche wanted to touch Castiel, hold his hand or wrap an arm around him, but instead, Dean picked himself up and stretched, yawned and looked tiredly around the room. He'd put on some coffee, enjoy it in peace and quiet, and then he'd seek out Sam, Chuck and Jack - he needed information about Lucifer, and it simply couldn't wait any longer, no matter how much he wished he could just ignore the issue away.

He was just about to get up when Castiel called his name, making him turn around instead. The light was cast in from precisely the right angle, making the older's eyes the shade of the sky somewhere behind the clouds. He smiled a little, then turned his gaze to the window, flinching a little at the light that filled his vision. Dean smiled back at him until it got too gay, and when it did, he used that awkward feeling as fuel to get himself out the bed and all the way to the kitchenette. He dragged out the washed coffee pan and worked his magic on it, hoping their wares of coffee weren't as hopeless as they'd been when he'd last checked in. Out of every life's luxury that the apocalypse was one by one picking away from him, coffee was the one he fought the hardest to hold onto. It would soon be as expensive and rare as good cigarettes or some low-grade painkillers, but if Castiel was serious about his intentions on giving up weed, then they could use his equipment for growing that to grow coffee instead. It offered some comfort to Dean that the angel did already have a coffee plant, only it was much too young and fragile to bear fruit yet. It had been a joke - one day, it could turn out to be a blessing.

While the water was starting to boil Dean headed out for a couple minutes, and when he came back to finish the coffee, he was greeted at the door by the kitten. He picked it up and on his way back to the kitchenette found out that it was most definitely a tomcat in the making.  
"If Castiel doesn't figure out a name for you, you'll really end up being named Lucifer. I would have called you Lucy if you were a girl, but you're not, so it's kind of your own fault too."

He tried to plant the cat on the floor next to him but it charged off in a sudden outburst of sheer madness, galloping around the room until disappearing underneath the bed and staying there.

"Cas?"  
  
The angel let out a muffled sound to acknowledge he was being addressed. Dean took the pan off the stove and poured himself a cup.  
"You want coffee?"

Another muffled sound, which Dean translated into an agreement. He pulled out another cup and filled it, put the pan down and picked up both the cups to bring into the bedroom with him. He sat on the bed, laid them down on the bedside table and helped Castiel up.  
"Did you clean the wound yesterday?" he asked, handing the angel his cup.  
  
Castiel accepted it with a quiet thank you, bringing the steaming liquid near his face to breathe in the strong scent.  
Then he looked up at Dean and nodded.  
"The infection is almost gone now," he said, "but I'm tired and in pain. It's not so much the wound as..."

"... right," Dean mumbled.  
He drowned his senses in the scent of his coffee as well just to avoid to subject they'd discussed earlier.  
"So you have a male kitten now. What did you think of using it for?"

Castiel licked his lips, laying the cup down on his lap. His fingers around it looked whiter than usual in the pale sunlight.  
"What could I possibly use it for?" he asked then, smiling a crooked smile, "It will run off one day to breed, and I'll never see it again. Meanwhile, I thought to simply keep it alive, for no practical purpose at all."

Dean rolled his eyes.  
"It'll get eaten this deep in the forest."

"Perhaps."  
The kitten reappeared from under the bed and climbed up to sniff at their coffees. Then it jumped off again, landed flat on the floor and skipped off in another spout of craziness.  
  
"He _really_ needs a name, Cas, because I'm already calling him Lucifer. If Sam hears me calling him that, he'll make mittens out of him before either of us can lift a finger to stop him."

Castiel nodded.  
"You'd do well not to bring up the subject too often around him, Dean," he spoke after a moment, daring to sip his coffee once the younger's name had dropped off of his lips.  
Dean wasn't as brave - the steam was still burning his skin at contact.  
"I can handle it, but we don't know for certain what was the price that Sam paid for his part in this."

"I don't really need you to remind me of it," Dean grunted, but his frustration was brief and disappeared as soon as it had surfaced.  
"He's suffering a lot," he said then, "I can't reach him. Not really."

"He's your brother," Castiel replied quietly, "And he takes to you. He feels he deserves his pain and therefore he won't share it. Truth is that he did choose it, and as a result, he took that all upon his shoulders willingly. He is guilty as charged. He knows it like you know it, and like you know your own guilt. You both carry the decisions you regret around with you like they were the beams that form the cross you will die on, thinking the burden is yours alone to bear and that nobody can, nor should, help you. I hope that your will to reach out to Sam will eventually open your eyes to the chains you wear around your own ankles, because nothing I can say will get me close enough to share that weight with you."

"You're really starting to get on my nerves, Cas."  
  
"That," Castiel smirked dryly, "seems to be the reason I exist. I've finally become the angel on your shoulder, whispering ugly truths into your ears. You don't want me there and I understand that, but really, who's left to keep you from collapsing in on yourself if I stop caring?"


	19. The Roots Of Evil (And Where To Start Digging)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a foreword, **if misogynia rightfully pisses the fuck out of any of you, I suggest you hang onto something for this chapter.** And I mean it. I'm extremely sorry for having to bring in this part of 2014!Dean's character any more than I've done in the past chapters, and especially for having to write this kind of shit in _any_ context, but it's certainly one of the traits that to me appear the core elements showing just how fucking _deep_ this guy went and how different he is from the Dean we know, who, for the record, is not very good with women to begin with. But he's not like _this_ , Jesus. I mean it. **I'm sorry for this chapter.**
> 
> And I hope that after this long apologise on his behalf it's not impossible to still care about him - trust me, I'm going to be handing his ass to him over this for the rest of the fic.
> 
> I feel dirty.
> 
> It's okay to move on now.

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

They finished their coffees talking mostly of nothing of importance. Dean's mind started returning more and more to its usual tracks, and by the time he was washing their cups and turning them on the rack to dry, he didn't have a thought to spare for anything but the really pressing matters: Lucifer and Sam, in that exact order.  
He left Castiel in his cabin - the angel had returned under the blankets and Dean was glad to see that. Behind him, he closed the door on the kitten's curious face, not necessarily wanting to be the one responsible for letting it out to be eaten by a fox or a hawk or some other animal that was inevitably lurking just behind the corner. He headed out, mouth tasting of thick coffee and mind ignoring the green world around him even as his eyes picked it apart, noticing a squirrel and a crow on the path, both soon disappearing into the surrounding thick forest. Whatever they'd discuss and whatever conclusion they would come to, it would take a while. Dean still hoped that afterwards, his mind would be less burdened with unfinished business, and he could take Sam to the lake and they could talk about the plans that they'd started on earlier in peace and quiet. There was a hunting tower close to the lake itself, set by a small meadow where deer gathered in the mornings, and it offered both a great visibility and auditory upper hand against anyone who would think of following them. There, they could take without being overheard.

The apple trees close to the main cabin were starting to bear quite a harvest, their branches drooping under the weight of the fruits. As he passed them, Dean picked out one of the smaller apples. It tasted of rain and promised a brief pause to their struggles with food. Maybe he'd even get to taste pie again.  
When Thomas had come to them, he'd bought his entry to the campsite with four chickens and a young cock, making certain that nobody questioned him for anything at all. It was impossible to say if he'd been a farmer or if he'd killed a farmer to get those bribes, but they had worked, and after eight months they had a chicken coop which was providing them with one of the rarest perishable goods - eggs. Eggs meant they could bake - baking meant they were one clear step ahead of starvation as long as they still had flour left, and flour they had.  
If the winter would treat them well, they'd even have enough chickens to slaughter a few the coming year. Dean had to close his eyes for a moment before entering the cabin, as the very thought of eating something rich in protein and calories felt like something had gripped his stomach and twisted it hard. When the pain passed, he took another bite out of his apple and opened the door.

Adam was the only one in there, and Dean didn't necessarily need him. However, he wasn't opposed to his presence either. If he'd really end up leaving with Sam, Adam was the most likely candidate for taking control over the base. Even now that Dean was theoretically fired from his position as the leader, Adam was the one who was handling things that had previously been Dean's in full. The man gave him a suspicious look, leaned back in his chair seeming exhausted like he'd been awake for two days in one run.  
  
"What's your business?" he asked in his low, threatening voice.  
  
Dean raised a brow and eyed the papers in front of him.  
  
"We have matters we need to look into," he said then, turning his eyes to the older's and facing him with calm confidence, "Do you know where Chuck is? We'll also need Jack and Sam here."

"What for?"

Dean licked his lips and turned to make use of the small kitchen. Meetings over urgent matters were the greatest excuse to drink more coffee than they could afford, and today, he was making use of it. The cup he'd drank earlier had only managed to make him want more. When the large pan was on the stove, he returned to the large room and leaned his shoulder onto the door's frame.  
"We need to talk about Lucifer."

That did the trick. Adam stood up, wiped his hands to the sides of his surprisingly clean-looking pair of black pants - he was one of the few on the campsite that didn't look like he spent his days rolling on grass or fixing cars. He looked at Dean for a moment and then nodded.  
"I will find them, and then we'll talk."  
When Dean was about to say he could just as well fetch them on his own, Adam raised his thick-fingered hand and silenced him with just that one move. Dean didn't know why he cared enough to fall quiet. Usually he would have spoken anyway, yet now he didn't.  
"I need the fresh air. Make sure the coffee's good."

And then he went on his way. Dean stared after him through the grimy window for a while before he disappeared, after which he simply sat down by the table and wondered whether or not he had just been treated like a maid.  
He decided he didn't care, as long as it got him to a position where he could proceed with his plan for the day. The clock on the wall was ticking, and his ears registered that sound, prompting a slight jump in his stomach - working clocks reminded him of normalcy. He leaned his head down onto his arms on the table and breathed in, listening, trying to remember how it had felt to relax in a position like that when he'd been in a motel room somewhere, waiting for Sam to come in with the coffee and his slice of pie. His teeth nipped at the apple he was still holding and he pretended it tasted like whatever he'd have when the Sam from his memory would return. It tasted like an apple, but that was the closest he was going to get, at least until they'd find sugar or syrup. Abigail had been dreaming of raising bees before she had caught the virus and was subsequently had to be put down. Perhaps her dream would come true - honey was a resource that was relatively easy to get a hold of if only they'd manage to set up a hive.  
Slowly Dean raised his head again, pulled over the pen Adam had left on the table and scribbled a note onto a blank piece of paper, leaving it on Chuck's seat before wandering back into the kitchen to get some coffee.

He poured himself a cup, finished the apple and cut a thin slice out of a bread set out for breakfast. His stomach was still aching from hunger. When he'd get back to Castiel's cabin, he'd drown himself in beans, canned meat and salad. The thought didn't exactly make his mouth water but it was so much better than not eating at all. He couldn't remember what he'd eaten the day before, if anything. If he had, it had been during the planning, and probably consisted of the same dry bread he was having now. No wonder he was starving.

He returned to wait by the table, and in some seven more minutes, the rest arrived. Chuck found his inquire about hives and he raised it, looked at Dean and made a questioning look. Dean nodded, making him nod as well in a thoughtful manner. Sam brushed his brother's hair in a light-hearted greeting as he passed from behind, sitting down on the chair next to him. He looked like he'd just woken up.  
Jack, on the other hand, looked just as tired as Adam. He fell onto his seat and buried his head in his arms. Adam brought the coffee to the table, and nobody said anything until they had swallowed at least a mouthful of the drink.

"So, let's get to it," Dean finally opened, tired of the silence, "I figure that since I'm still our expert on the apocalypse, I'm going to host this meeting."  
Nobody complained, so he turned his eyes to Sam and looked at him with a serious expression on his face. Sam looked back at him, but only briefly - he knew what was coming up next.  
"Sorry, Sam."

The younger bit a his lip, glanced at Dean again and nodded.  
"No, it's alright. Just... go ahead, I'll try my best."

Dean sipped his coffee and landed his feet on the table. He was just about to open his mouth when someone entered the cabin. He turned his head stiffly to see who it was. Chuck waved at Castiel, who flashed a quick smile at the rest of them, avoiding Dean's eyes for a reason the younger couldn't imagine.  
"Seems like you forgot me," the angel said and occupied a chair, lifted his legs on the table and grimaced at the pain it caused him, but once he was settled, his expression easened again.  
"I admit I'm a little offended."

"Right," Dean huffed and rubbed at his forehead, grimacing. "Right. I'm an idiot. You're an angel. You should be here. Good that you came."  
Castiel eyed him briefly.  
"Not an angel - not anymore, not quite," he smiled, "but I still know a thing or two about what I suspect you're about to talk about. Am I late?"

"No," Chuck replied, "You're just in time. How's the wound?"

"I'll survive."

Dean was still watching him when the silence returned. There was a very clear separation between the Castiel he'd spent time with and this Castiel here. The reason he saw it so clearly now was because the Castiel he'd spoken to just a little less than an hour ago had referred to himself as an angel, and this one here denied it, bringing attention rather to the fact that he was mortal now than to what he still was inside. He licked his lips as the older glanced at him again, possibly triggered by the manner he was staring at him. Dean turned away and faced Sam, but when he spoke, he spoke to Castiel.  
"How did you know we're gathering?"

"I threw a stone at his window to wake him up," Chuck answered for the angel, looking apologetic as if not sure whether or not Dean had forgotten the older on purpose, "Thought that if it's going to happen, then..."  
  
"Thanks, Chuck. I would have needed him in approximately fifteen minutes and someone would have had to go and get him anyway," Dean said, hoping to sound as sincere as he was, "so you saved us that interruption."  
He'd been much too preoccupied with his intentions of assembling this meeting with everyone who wasn't already there that he'd simply forgotten that Castiel was needed as well. His head was starting to ache. Sleeping too long was clearly not healthy for him.  
Dean fought back the need to look at Castiel - to say something, anything - and instead forced himself to gather his thoughts again and lead Sam on to give them the basis from where to proceed. His thoughts were suspiciously quiet still, however.  
"So, Sam. Your story. We need to know what you remember of the time you were under Lucifer's control, everything that could be useful for us, and especially what happened when you managed to break free. Everything."

Sam's skin fell pale before he could even begin, but Dean knew the fire in his eyes. He gathered his thoughts, pressing the tips of his fingers against his forehead for a moment before clearing his throat and looking up again.  
"I became his vessel in Detroit in late 2009. After that, I have no recollection of when everything happened, or whether it happened at all. Having an archangel inside you is..."

He glanced at Dean, who felt nauseous at this subject. It made him want to strangle the younger, no matter how happy he'd been to have him back - like just a mention of this brought back all the pain the years had caused him, pushing aside the guilt and replacing it with anger and disappointment.  
 _Why did you do it?  
_ _What madness brought you to that decision?  
_  
 _Why was it my fault?_

Sam shivered and closed his eyes.  
"So... I don't remember all that much."

When he opened them again, sipped his coffee and watched Jack reach for the box of matches in the middle of the table to light a candle they didn't need as if the topic they were discussing was somehow suffocating the natural light shining through the window, the blue-green colour of his eyes seemed darker and different. His expression was that of a man who wasn't entirely present in the room, like a war veteran thinking back to his days on the field, watching men he'd known fall again, feeling their blood upon his own skin, warm and thick, a constant reminder of his own mortality and guilt. Dean pulled a leg up onto his chair, then the other, leaning his knees onto the table. Castiel's eyes were scanning the ceiling. Adam, Chuck and Jack simply looked discomfortable. Chuck more than the rest; he, after all, knew precisely what the apocalypse had been about. He'd foreseen it all, he was as aware of its supernatural, biblical origin as the two brothers and the angel present in the room were. To the rest of them, it was just one theory; the one they chose to believe, despite its oddness, and because they'd seen the way the governments were handling everything. Slowly but certainly, what they'd learned had made them stay, but still they had little more than faith in that this all came from Lucifer. Everyone in the room had seen demons, even as their numbers had gone down over the years, but simply the presence of demons did not necessarily mean everything they told was as true. Dean was, for the first time, glad that he had a bunch of sane people in there instead of a bunch of pure crazy. Everyone on the camp had gone through a lot of pressure, many traumatic situations and certainly the deaths of most of their loved ones, often right in front of them, sometimes even in the hands of other survivors. More often than not, those deaths had been violent, and it was more than likely that the vast majority of those who'd made it to the camp had gone through a full hell of their own. None of them really liked talking about it. Sometimes, full on drunk and in the dark, some of them spoke of parts of it, but those parts were never referred to again.  
The fact that Sam was now sharing his experience possibly made them all recall their own, subconsciously afraid they'd be the next to cite their stories. They all knew the price of calling the past back to present.

As Sam told of what he'd seen, little by little he grew less tense. Massacre by massacre he became dull to the mentions, stating places, approximate times, number of victims like they were statistics and not terrible events he'd stood witness to. He grew tired of mentioning his struggles, or then he simply had ceased to struggle at all, and when they'd matched the places and numbers of victims to events they knew of to confirm or defute Sam's idea of timing, they found a gaping hole beginning from the early 2012 and continuing all the way up to the summer of 2014 when Sam hadn't truly been present at all. The younger brother sat quietly drinking his coffee, pale and sickly looking, without making a comment about any of it unless he was presented with a direct question nobody else could answer. Dean watched him, and he knew there was so much that the younger wasn't saying - things that had only happened to him, perhaps, or that were private enough for him to not mention them, even if they could help them make sense of the situation.

A terrifying feeling of a whole new hollow opening inside the older's stomach had made itself present as Sam started recalling what little other information he could recall, such as the plans involving the Horsemen and the spread of the virus. His voice had grown monotonous like he didn't even care, or was too torn to give a damn anymore. When he got to the point where he described the events before Dean's failed last shot at the devil, he was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed and his voice regained a faint memory of tones to it. Dean tried not to look guilty. Lucifer had known everything, and when Sam's words had metaphorically stripped him naked in front of the rest, he had nothing to say to it. This was the truth. He'd marched in like an idiot, got everyone killed for nothing, and then proceeded to nearly die himself. Sam confirmed one thing, with his eyes partially open and the dark colour of them aimed at Dean - Lucifer hadn't intended to kill him. If he had, Dean wouldn't have lived. It had been a show for the younger Dean, perhaps to save him the surprise when he'd arrive at that point himself and find out that his hell was still far from over.

"What I saw him do to my brother," Sam continued, his eyes closing again, "woke me up. I had grown more and more aware over the past few days, but I hadn't had any will to do anything about it, it was nearly like I didn't exist anymore, not really. But when he snapped Dean's neck and took me back to the lair, I was fully aware. He relocated, but midway through the flight, I fell off. I decided I would, and I did. I don't know how it happened but when I found myself again, I was on the highway leading wherever, and _something_ told me to kept going. I honestly doubt it was him. He seemed entirely unaware of the changes in me up to the very point I... broke free."

Dean licked his lips.  
"How the hell did you break off midflight?" he asked, and saw Castiel taking his feet off of the table - finally, after nearly an hour and a half of nothing but talk and questions.

"That isn't possible," the angel said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, "The angel flight is not a physical thing. You're well aware of that, Sam, given that you've been there yourself. For the rest of you - when an angel relocates, he doesn't take off and cross distances. It's more of - what would you call it, Dean?"  
  
"Teleportation," Dean filled in, "Disappearing from one location and simultaneously becoming physical in another. No time to drop off on your stop, so to speak."

Sam nodded.  
"That's what's bugging me," he sighed, sinking deeper in his chair, "It was like in that fraction of a second, I was torn from him."

"So it wasn't so much you as - as what, God?" Dean interfered, letting out a sarcastic laughter with the last word.  
  
Sam shrugged.  
"Dean, I wish it was. But really, I don't know."

Dean examined him. There was not a single sign to be found indicating that he was lying. He knew his brother, knew when he lied, and Sam was being honest with them now.  
"Okay. So let's say God finally played the dad card and confiscated Lucy's favourite toy while he was busy zapping back to Barad-dûr, and was then still feeling exceptionally generous so he handed you the map to our not so hidden base in the middle of this forest as a sign of good will. And you what, crawled on all fours until you got here?"

Sam grimaced.  
"I wasn't that far off. Perhaps seven miles at most."

"And you - you just felt like whichever turn you took was the right direction? Do you have any idea how crazy all that sounds?" Dean asked.

Castiel leaned to the table, his eyes on Sam. He didn't say anything, merely watched him really closely, as if looking for some clues that he would only be able to catch if he saw beyond what was visible to the rest of them. Sam answered his gaze rather than Dean's, and for a moment, everyone was quiet and watched the two of them, probably wondering what the hell was going on right in front of their eyes.  
Then, finally, Castiel leaned back again. All of a sudden he seemed very exhausted, and despite the expecting looks from all around him, he didn't say anything at all.  
Dean raised brows at him, then cocked his head as if to dismiss the issue and cleared his throat.

"How likely it is that you're the only one that followed us here?" he asked Sam.

"Likely," Sam replied immediately, "I saw no one before the camp. No one. And the whole walk took me a good while - you saw me, what condition I was in. It wasn't easy. Then again, I wasn't fully conscious either, but chances are..."

"They need to be pretty good, Sam. If there's a wave of something coming for us any day now, we need to get the hell out of here, and that'll take a while."

Sam shook his head.  
"I don't think so."

"Good. With the group two survivors, we can still defend the area without falling back on other work we need to do, which means we don't necessarily need to relocate. Chuck? With me on this?"  
  
Chuck nodded anxiously. He had brought his large notebook with him and was searching through it quite feverishly for something. When he finally found it, he let out a little sound of relief, turned the cover over and flashed the pages to them - nobody really knew what the statistics were about even after Chuck had briefly shown them the writing.  
"After cutting the guard duty for everyone and adding in hours for each new capable pair of eyes, we're well off in terms of time for each to rest and eat. What we don't have, though, are a proper mechanic, since... since Ben, well, died, and we'll need more people hunting, because if we don't stack up on fresh meat, we're going to face some hard times in near future. But about the relocation, it's best if we don't attempt it. We can't spare people to look for safe campsites, and moving everything for hundreds of miles while lacking guards for even one site at a time sounds like suicide to me."

"Chuck?" Sam spoke, apparently unexpectedly as everyone turned their eyes to him.  
He seemed a little nervous of the sudden attention, but continued anyway.  
"I'm pretty handy at fixing things."

"You are?" both Dean and Chuck asked at the same time.  
Sam gave Dean an annoyed look, turned back to Chuck and nodded.  
  
"Yeah. I mean, I don't think there's much around here that I can't manage. For cars, though, Dean's better."

Dean shrugged.  
"Sounds about right. As for what you said," he noted and caught Chuck in a determined eye contact, "I mentioned repopulation earlier."  
Now he turned from Chuck to Jack.  
"Jack, I need you to look for used frequencies on radios. Any will do. We need to contact people who want to join up. No mention of anything being wrong, they can feel pissed off later once they're safely inside our fences. Now, when we got back from the raid, Grant said he saw a military vehicle on the road up North some twenty miles from here. The loops are still on, correct?"

"There's no way the loops aren't on, you can count on me with that," Jack replied, slowly scribbling notes on a torn bit of paper, "I'll start the radio roll again - and I'll keep an eye on the frequency I mentioned two weeks ago that you dismissed as well, if you don't mind."  
  
Dean grimaced.  
"Anything I said two weeks ago has stopped being relevant now, Jack, so go for it."  
His ears caught the distant sound of a woodpecker coming from outside.  
"Now, about the hunting group, Grant needs to be spoken with about that. I can't do jacksquat about it - I hunt demons and croats, not deer, and I smell so bad I'd drive prey off from a mile's radius. So don't even mention it. We're offtopic anyway. Sam mentioned the Horsemen. So what do we have on them? Potential locations, signs of activity, anything?"

Sam eyed Dean while Adam was going through the combined reports from the last month's time that Chuck had just handed him in a brown box that they kept on top of the site's last working freezer.  
"You aren't suggesting we go after them?" the younger brother asked him reservedly.

Dean looked back at him and smiled unhappily.  
"It's one of my less suicidal mission scenarios, actually," he said, "The Colt's gone, the devil's MIA, but we're still facing a situation where we have some big bosses on the run. Bosses we can defeat, if you recall the time we caught War by the finger."

Light creases appeared between Sam's brows, but finally he nodded.  
"Removing Pestilence from the game might slow down the spread of the virus."

"Don't know about that but it's worth a shot anyway. I mean, what else can we do here? I hear Famine's a cool guy too, but he's been off the map for a while. Unless, of course, the past month's reports have something."

Sam swallowed thickly and fell silent.

"Risa had news on Famine," Castiel noted dryly, leaning towards the center of the table again, "She probably reported in before we lost her."

His eyes passed Dean's profile, but the younger refused to acknowledge him. Any mention of Risa was making him regretful of quite a couple things he'd done to her - she'd been one of the best he'd had, but he'd been too busy trying to get in her pants to give her the respect she'd deserved. And then there'd been Jane. That had been quite unfortunate, really. With retrospect he might have not slept with Jane, even if she was better in bed than Risa was. At least now he didn't have to make that choice, although bedding her was about as likely as saving the world.

Suddenly he grew all too aware of the fact that he'd brought in the perfect instrument for retaliation, should Jane decide to pull one on him. Sam was unaware of his potential as the means for yet another conflict beginning from one member of the group taking revenge on another for some seemingly small injustice. Dean wouldn't bite, even if Jane would go that far. And by the way Lotus was acting, Jane might have someone else to answer for it, so perhaps it wasn't worth it for her. Sam, on the other hand, might benefit from sleeping with either of them - and greatly from sleeping with both.  
The younger brother looked at Dean, his expression telling him he'd stared for much too long. Dean flashed a grin at him and relaxed again. He drank from his cup, watching Jack become aware of his surroundings as he did so, only to reach for the now empty coffee pan. He shook it for a moment before giving up and disappearing into the kitchen with it, perhaps to further exhaust their stocks.

"Mm," Adam started, shaking whatever remained of Dean's thoughts back into oblivion as he gathered his concentration from the dusts it had fallen to and turned his eyes to the man, "Yes, there are reports on both the Horsemen - and of course, we know approximately where Death last visited, what with the bombing of Houston. Let me see."  
He licked his lips and turned the page, his eyes skimming the page quickly.  
"Ah. Yes. By the look of things, Pestilence is back in America. A military camp suffered greatly from a sudden epidemic of swine flu, the new strain, killed thirteen out of twenty infected. Pretty grim numbers even for our days. Now, there's also a mention of what could be the most recent site affected by Famine, but with people today, you never know. I mean, cannibalism is commonplace in uncontrolled towns. The decent people are starving, if there's no prey, then - well. But there were also reports of sex-related heart attacks and a ruptured intestine, so I'd say it's a pretty safe bet for Famine. He enjoys rupturing intestines. Likeable fellow, no?"

Dean bit on his lip thoughtfully. They exchanged glances with Sam, who nodded.  
"So which one was closer? We'll ignore Death since I'm _pretty sure_ he's the guy we have the least chance against. Damn, I like them all being neatly situated in the States, though."

Adam turned a page again, first one forward and then back.  
"Famine is behind the blockade - if that's him - and in my opinion we'd have a hard time trying to reach that far. Pestilence was some three to four hundred miles from here, near Russell, Kansas. Better chances heading there. Or whatever suits you - I sure as hell ain't coming."

A calm huff escaped Dean.  
"That's fine, we do our best work as a team of two, right, Sammy?"

"... Right."  
Sam cleared his throat and crossed his hands on his lap.  
"So that's the plan, then? Figure out where he is now and me and Dean go after him?"

"How's the Impala?" Castiel asked mockingly, adjusting his legs right back on the table as Dean looked at him.  
He stared at Dean and suddenly, Dean was quite certain he'd smelled out the plan they'd left unfinished up to date.  
"Sad that you can't take her with you, not with the current prices for gas."

"Shut up, Cas, we're not that far along yet."  
  
"Impala? That rusted piece of antique garbage you left to rot by the fence?" Jack asked and burst out laughing, "Yeah, she ain't going anywhere fer shure."

"You too, Jack, I'm working on her and she _will_ be going somewhere, just not today, and neither are we," Dean grunted and cast him a nasty look before turning back towards Castiel, "and you - you'd better stow your crap if you want to take any part in the planning from this day on. You're pissed at me again for some reason but you can take it out on me later. I don't need that now."

Castiel responded to his challenging stare with lighthearted interest, once again like he was some sort of an unexpected postmodern sculpture and not a person or anything remotely resembling one.  
"No, I'm not pissed at you, Dean. I'm in. In the plan, I mean. Killing Pestilence. You won't survive out there by yourselves, no offense."

Dean stared at him.  
"None taken," he finally replied, his voice showing exactly how taken aback he was with the lack of reaction in the older - and especially what had come instead of it.  
Sam seemed just as uncertain of how else to reply to that as he was.


	20. Garden of Guilt

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The less Dean spent time in his cabin, the dustier it smelled. He wrenched open one of the windows and fresh air poured in through the rusty bars keeping his mind at ease. He turned back and leaned to the wall, feeling the cool current spreading around him. Sam stood by the ladder and watched Castiel, who had already sat down at the table. The angel was pale and looked sick again. Dean couldn't tell if it was the wound and lack of rest or if he was rather suffering because of the withdrawals, but it was probably the result of all that combined. The remaining question was simply which of the issues was the worst offender.  
"So you think you can be of use when we go out to hunt the Horsemen?" he asked contemptuously.

Castiel looked at him and huffed softly.  
"Yes," he said, "and this whole you two packing up and taking off together business isn't sitting with me all that well, if I'm honest with you."

Sam looked at Dean and Dean knew what he was thinking.  
"Do you think you can stop us? Tag along so you'll get to watch we're not hightailing it, is that it?"

Castiel blinked. Then he let out a mix of a chuckle and an annoyed sigh, leaned his elbow to the table and stared at Dean for a good long while, nearly prompting a panicked "what?" out of him.  
Then, just before the word climbed out of Dean's throat, Castiel shook his head.  
"Who do you think I am?" he asked, tilting his head, his eyes as piercing as ever, "That was never my intention. No, Dean, look. I don't know what I've done to make you hate me so much, but I want out of here just as much as you do. So if you're leaving - then you need to take me with you."

Dean didn't know what to say.  
"You have a home here," he finally stuttered.

Castiel's smile was crooked but soft.  
"Home is where your heart is," he answered gently but firmly.  
"My heart is wherever the two of you go."

Sam let out a sigh and moved to the table. He took a seat and landed heavily on it, crossed his hands on the table in front of him and turned to look at Dean expectingly. The older tilted his head a little as if to say why not, and walked up to the two of them. Seats were out of question for him again - after all, he'd spent the whole day sitting in one - so he merely used one to climb to set on the table instead.

"Well," he said after a moment of silence, "My heart is with my Baby. So what do we do about her?"

"Dean -" Sam started, but Dean motioned with his hand.

"It's not up for debate," he noted in a voice that clearly stated the conversation was over long before it even started.

"So can you do something about the tank?"

"The engine is what's giving me headache, not the tank," Dean replied simply, "but my brain's on it. So how about we concentrate on the pressing matters while Jack's tracking Pestilence. Like how to get to him for starters."

Castiel let out a sound of approval.  
"At least you're actually going after him, then. For a moment I was nearly certain you were only using it as an excuse.

Sam let out a surprised laugh.  
"No way," he said, "No freaking way."

"Yeah, I'm with him," Dean grunted, "There's not a whole lot out there anymore and if I stand a snowball's chance in hell to make it just that much better, I'm on it. It's my fault it got this bad, after all."

"Damn right," Sam sighed, "We sort of owe this to the world. So we just go there and hope that we catch him by surprise?"  
  
"Long enough to get the ring off," Dean nodded, "That's the best shot we have. Once we find out where he is now, we'll figure out a better plan. Cas, you got anything?"

Castiel shook his head.

"No," he admitted, "Not much. I'd imagine I need to recover first, however. I won't be up for travelling in another week at least. Fighting... not sure when I can do that. Three would be risking it. I'd say two months but the summer won't last forever."

Dean crossed his legs and picked up a bullet that had rolled about next to him. He brought it over for inspection and realised it had fallen out when he'd dug out guns for himself and Sam the day before - it was from his belt. He wondered how it had ended up there without either of them noticing. Dropping the matter, he put the bullet into his pocket and made an indecisive sound.  
"I doubt we'll have enough to go from for weeks anyway," he admitted, "I wish we still had the Internet. Sam would get us everything we need in no time at all."

"Yeah, like that's why you miss Internet," Sam pointed out sarcastically.

"Oh, shut up."

Castiel shifted in his seat and let out a frustrated sound.  
"Well, if we're done here - I have a kitten to feed and a wound to recover from, if you'll excuse me," he huffed and eyed the two of them, apparently indecisive on whether or not he had been hoping for something more from the conversation, "Don't run away while you're at it. If you don't want me with you, at least say it to my face."

Sam looked at Dean questioningly when Castiel rose up from his seat, rather slowly and carefully - Dean nodded at him a little, having a faint idea of what he was being asked about.  
"Cas," Sam began right away, "We'd love to have you with us."

Castiel laid a hand on the table and leaned to that arm to take a good look at both of them. Then he smiled a little.  
"I'm glad to hear that," he said, aiming his words to Dean as he watched how he reacted before turning to Sam again, "Either way, I'm sure you two need some time alone. You have a lot to talk about before it's realistic to think you can work together as a team again. And while I'm talking about realism here, let's also face the truth that there won't be a romantic runaway scenario in front of us. Whatever we decide to do, we need the base to back us up on it. They won't stop us from leaving if we say we'll probably never come back, but we need to say it if we want to contact them again for information. It's a brand new world out there, and we won't get far without a base and people who are willing to share what they have."

Dean nodded with a sigh.  
"Now go and stop ruining the mood," he grimaced, making an unclear motion with his hand in the approximate direction of the door, "if you intend to do that. It's probably okay with you if I take a couple hours with Sam before coming in and cooking something for us both?"

The angel licked his lips indecisively before nodding.  
"I think I'll just try to get some sleep. After taking care of the animal, anyway."

He pushed himself on his feet and turned to leave. By the door, he glanced back and caught Sam's eyes. Dean had no idea what went on between them before he was out the door and they were left alone, but the moment lasted a fraction too long to go unnoticed.  
Just when Dean turned to ask the younger, Sam choked on himself, coughed and started laughing.

"Wow," he finally managed, his eyes watering as he looked back at Dean, who was staring at him with the most disbelieving expression on his face, "That hurt like hell."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. I swallowed. Wrong," Sam replied with a grimace.  
He reached to rub at his throat and coughed again. Then he shook his head.  
"I think he's right, though. About pretty much everything actually."

Dean shrugged.  
"He is. Say, I don't feel all that comfortable chatting here. I had a neat plan earlier about me and you in the forest in a wholly unsexy manner, so how about we take that up and head out, take a good look around the place and talk."

Sam raised a brow at him.

"Sure."

 

*  
  
  


Rays of light filtered through the slowly swaying roof of the forest, hitting the soft green of the undergrowth like a thousand golden puddles of light that disappeared and then reappeared, never quite the same as they'd been earlier. Dean lead them along a barely visible path deeper into the forest and Sam followed him. They weren't talking, as each seemed to concentrate more on breathing in the scents and enjoying the warmth of the day than on heading for anyplace, and there was a surprising lack of tension between them, as if for the moment experiencing the unspoiled world around them had easened their minds off of all the troubles they carried with them.  
As they continued on, closer to the lake with each step, Dean tried to remember when he'd actually been there the last time. It could have been a full month or even more since that day, and he had hardly enjoyed the trip. Ever after he'd located the Colt, his mind had been too occupied to enjoy the forest - even before that, he hadn't found much joy in the forest itself, more the activities he'd partaken in there, like fishing. It was as if for the time he'd spent on the camp, he'd forgotten how to relax, or lacked the reason to do so. Now everything seemed different somehow.

Even though they were headed more to the north-west direction and a path lead up there as well, Dean followed the one leading them to the lake first. It was a beautiful lake, worth seeing especially if they weren't going to stay for long. He was almost certain that the place was to Sam's liking, it seemed the type of a place the man would have found peace in even before it turned to one of the only areas in the world left quite like it had always been. Here, the past was more present than elsewhere. The apocalypse had left forests standing, lakes unspoiled and the birds still singing, filling the deep silence with their chirping, cawing and the sounds of their wings. Occasionally other sounds could be heard, especially during rut seasons the deers were noisy, and one night they'd heard a mountain lion, although nobody had ever seen the beast or heard of it since.  
The closer they got to the lake, the clearer the path became as the ground changed structure and turned lighter with more roots passing through it, sometimes rising above the ground level, sometimes staying just below like a net, making each of their steps sound hollow and bounce back like they were walking on a natural, hard and vast trampoline.

Through the trunks of the trees, sunlight reflected from the clear waters of the lake. Dean slowed down, letting Sam take the lead, and the younger walked past him hesitatingly, as if not sure if he could freely roam the area. He pushed through the trees and stopped at the shoreline, slowly taking in the sight. Dean followed him as he wandered off along the worn dock. Each of their steps caused ripples to the water, small and faint circles that soon faded into the gentle waves like they'd never existed, only to be replaced by another pair further along the wooden level.

Once they reached the end, Sam turned a little sideways so that he was facing both the lake and Dean, even though his eyes were on the waters and the horizon up ahead. Wind caught his hair and he let out a quiet laugh, finally looking back at the older brother. Dean answered the look with a serious face. His chest ached with an odd pressure, like seeing Sam this way was changing something inside him faster than he could adjust to it. He'd never really accepted this as his new life - even if he'd never had many of the luxuries other people took for granted, he was still a child of a modern country, and seeing all of that society fall apart right in front of him had broken something inside him. The only way he could cope was by living in a very long dream, a nightmare that would still inevitably one day end and he would wake up from a motel room bed, trembling and covered in cold sweat, wildly glancing around the familiar yet nearly forgotten space, the cracked paint on the walls and the cheap furniture still intact as it had been when he'd fallen asleep. He'd see himself from the TV's screen and slowly realise these past years had been nothing but the product of his troubled subconscious. Perhaps the whole apocalypse had been just that, a long, long nightmare he would soon wake from.  
But Sam was different. The tears in his eyes were genuine, the feelings he couldn't put in words as he stood there and felt the wind against his skin, smelled the water and heard the trees and the birds all around them. His feet shifted upon the planks and he looked down like he was seeing it for the first time, and then he looked back at the water again. He was chained in that spot, unsure what to do, of whether he was really there, of what he could do. If he'd reach for the water, would the world change or disappear entirely as just another of the devil's tricks?

Dean stepped closer to the dock's end and looked down. He could see his own reflection, and right next to it was Sam's, who was now looking in front of them again. The older swallowed thickly and laid a hand on the younger's shoulder.  
Sam didn't seem to mind.

"If we have the time, we could come fishing here," Dean offered quietly.  
His words were caught up in the wind that carried them off, sweeping them across the glimmering surface that reflected the now nearly cloudless sky above. Sam nodded. They both knew they stood little chance to have that time, but maybe it would happen. Dean would make sure he'd do his best to make it happen - fix the car as fast as he could to as good condition as he could with the resources available, and then spend the rest of the time with Sam, waiting for the news and for Cas to recover.

"Seems so strange," Sam finally said, "that everything here looks so normal. Like if we just turned back now, Impala would be behind the corner and we could drive on, buy some crappy food and find a motel to sleep in. It's like I can believe _that_ , like it's more true than what really is out there. And even though I know I haven't really been here for a while... it's like I was never gone, just slept for a long while and woke up still confused about what's real and what's not."

Dean's lips parted to let in a quiet gasp - he examined the younger half-curious, half-terrified.  
"You know, I was thinking the exact same thing a minute ago."

He tried a smile that didn't really fit on his face, giving up and letting it die down in a moment. His eyes returned to the waves dividing at the base of the dock and to the renewing dark line that indicated where the water had touched last. Even that was surreal somehow, as each time the line blended back in just a short moment before another wave came in and painted it dark and clear again, Dean couldn't really ever be sure it had been there to begin with. He kept watching, hypnotised, trying to capture the moment the line truly was there, and each and every time he failed, as the very next moment it had faded again and he could never really be sure it had been there, even though he knew it had.  
Finally he looked up ahead at the forest on the opposite side of the lake, then turned and started making his way back to the shore. He stopped for a moment to let Sam catch up with him.

"Let's head on, I can't keep Cas hungry for too long," he grinned and motioned the younger to follow him.

They soon parted from the path that followed the shape of the lake's shores, moving on deeper into the green and towards the hunting tower's location. There were more oaks and ash trees in this direction, unlike around the camp where the forest was almost strictly red cedar excluding the immediate vicinity of the cabins that had been cleared and mostly reclaimed by young birches and all sorts of opportunistic shrubs, and the growth here was much lighter, each tree growing just that much further away from one another, letting in light and allowing grass to grow tall and plenty.  
"Dean..."

Dean tiled his head lazily to the younger's direction.  
"Yeah?" he asked, hopping over a fallen young birch laying across the path he was following.

"Is... Bobby's dead, right?"

The tower was visible from where Dean stopped. He gave it a look, then turned to Sam, opened his mouth to say anything - nothing came out. He sighed and kept moving. Sam caught up with him and they finished the walk side by side. The older hopped on the tower's stairs first and climbed up, settling on a rugged-looking seat inside the wooden box that formed what felt like a rather comfortable room with large visibility across the meadow around them. The lake couldn't just quite be seen from here anymore, but the lookout tower hardly served a sceneric purpose. For their needs, it was as perfect as possible.  
Sam settled next to him in a creaky stool and gave him a look that told him he still owed him an answer. Dean inconclusively brought his hand through his hair and looked out, examining the area as if expecting to see something out there, something that wasn't grass or a bush or a bird crossing low on its way to another tree or down to the ground in search of food. He shivered and tried not to get his heart into the answer even if he knew it was impossible to avoid.

"Yeah," he finally said, unable to look at Sam at all, "Bobby's dead."

Sam nodded slowly.  
"How did he... how did he go?"

Dean glanced at him quickly before looking away again.  
"I don't know. It could have been anything. A robbery or a pack of croats or hell, even the military. One day he just didn't answer when we sent in the signal. Spared a couple good men to check up on him and he'd been shot. They brought him back and I gave him a proper burial, the way he was supposed to be buried."

To his surprise, Dean didn't see Sam looking away. Instead, the man was keenly staring at him, measuring his every breath and movement. He looked just like Dean had looked just before, expecting to find something that wasn't there from what he was looking at.  
Eventually he gave up and turned to face the meadow.

"You said they brought him back."

Dean nodded slowly.  
"He came here with us, at first. Didn't agree with..."

"You."

"Me. I told him to bite me and he left. One of... one of my worst mistakes."

Sam looked at him again. He was shivering even in the warmth of the day, and had the look of a man who didn't know where he was headed for.  
"You've made quite a few since we last saw."

Dean looked back at him and the corner of his mouth climbed upwards to half of a grimace of pain.  
"Mistakes are the only statistic I shine at. He kept a photo close, they told me. I wasn't in it."

"Dean..." Sam started, fell quiet for a moment as he looked for words, then went on; "I don't think that means anything. You were like a son to him. Both of us were."  
  
Dean let out a dry laughter.  
"Yeah well, you don't know much about it. How we parted. How bad things had gotten between us."

Sam reached out and grabbed his wrist, capturing his attention and shredding that cover of defiant irony from him, the smile that covered all the pain he was feeling. In a much kinder manner he let go again, but the eye contact he'd won stayed. Dean rubbed at his wrist absently.  
"Did we ever stop being family when things got bad between us?"

"Well -"

"No, Dean. Did we? I mean, we didn't talk for _years_. I came as close to hating you as I could, and I can't even begin to imagine how you felt about me, hearing what I'd done. Did I stop being your brother? I crawled here the first thing I did when I regained control - and the first thing you did was to come to me. You didn't shoot, you helped me inside. Because we were still family. It doesn't end where things get bad. Bobby would have never stopped caring about you, no matter how disappointed he was. I think I knew the man, Dean. Don't you tell me he'd changed that much."

A breeze of wind caught up in Dean's mouth when he opened it to reply, and as he hesitated, it dried his tongue. He ended up licking his lips indecisively and stickily instead, his gaze jumping out the windows back to the edge of the forest.  
"Yeah, well, it doesn't change anything. I let him down and I let him die. The story of my life so far."  
They remained silent for a moment before Dean let out a worn laughter.  
"Actually, it just makes it worse. What I did to him."

Sam looked at him for a while before turning back again. Then, to Dean's surprise, he chuckled quietly. The older shot a confused look at him and Sam shook his head slightly, his eyes lacking the sparkle they'd had before.  
"How are we supposed to live with this? Everything we've done, the choices we've made that lead to this point," he asked monotonously, rhetorically, "How did we live with knowing we had to make the choices, and now that we know we failed every last one?"

Dean shrugged. He really had no answer for the younger. He'd lost all his answers a good while ago.

"I think the reason I live is simply that dying is even more pointless," he finally said with a shrug, "We've seen what comes after. We don't just disappear. If I could just disappear, I'd take that in a heartbeat, I'd deserve it. But I'm afraid there'll be something more, somewhere I'm headed for. I don't know if it's heaven or hell or something else reserved for my kind of evil, but wherever it is, it's not the end. So it's not like I really have a choice here. Either I stay and try to hit one right out of the odd hundred decisions I've made wrong, maybe fix something even if it doesn't change much, or I die knowing I wasted that one last chance. Most of the time I just keep breaking things, though. So perhaps I'm just too much of a coward to finish myself off when the world clearly lacks the motivation to do so. I could go on forever - I mean, what if my purpose here is to fuck everything up until there's nothing left to fuck up anymore? But it doesn't mean anything. All I'll ever have is just more questions."

He swallowed and let out a heavy sigh, rubbed at his forehead and tried to focus on something other than his inner monologue he'd just poured out like it was relevant to anything at hand. Sam was still watching him.

"I still want to do the right thing," the younger muttered quietly, lowering his gaze to the floor, "I guess that keeps me going. As you said, believing that I can do the right thing keeps me here making the wrong decisions."

Dean grimaced.  
"I have a theory to make us both feel better," he said in a rough tone implying he could be joking if there was a single funny side to the situation at all, "Maybe this is our hell."

Sam huffed.  
"You know, I kind of wish it was. That everyone we killed was either dead already or didn't exist, that we're stuck here for an eternity to be punished for everything we did. I just don't dare to believe it, because if I do, I belittle the pain I caused to feel better for myself."

"I guess that's part of hell. Having responsibility. Screw responsibility, though - Sam, how're you? In general, I mean, aside the whole wiping off humanity from the face of the planet and letting the devil win business, because I don't think we're going to get anywhere talking about that. There's nothing to be achieved by wallowing in self-pity. So truthfully, how are you doing?"

It was Sam's turn to grimace. He rose up from his chair and leaned out the lookout tower's window, crossing his arms on the frames and peering out at the meadow below. Dean joined him there. Even though it was big enough for one person to stand comfortably at, now that he was there too, their elbows were rubbing together whenever one of them inhaled.

"I guess I'm good, everything considered," the younger said in a moment.  
Wind blew at his hair - it was nearly long enough to hit Dean in the face when it caught the breeze, and the older gave it a sort of a purposeless, threatening look as it reached out for him.  
"You're expecting an honest answer this time? I'm tired and confused and scared, guilty more so than anything, and half the time I'm not sure if I'm all right in the head either, but I mean, I'm alive and I'm coping, so I'm doing better than I'd reasonably expect. And... you?"

Dean shrugged. The more often he did that, the more it strained his muscles, but considering it had only been a few days since he'd been injured and the worst remaining part was the brown-yellowish tint of his skin from the bruising, that was borderlining one more miracle absolutely no one had asked for.

"I go through my motions," he uttered bitterly, "Eat, sleep, try not to think, the same basic crap that got me here in the first place. You're better at voicing how you feel. I don't even know if I feel anymore."  
He thought for a moment before continuing.  
"You're not sure if you're all right in the head? Well, I know for certain that my head's a _mess_."


	21. Hidden In Plain Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["I'm sorry, I'm lost."](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Inh_8brOWqQ)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kindly requesting a marriage between Dean and Castiel after proofreading and editing this chapter that I didn't remember existed. After, of course, I've punched my main character square in the face at least thrice.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

They made their way back a little after an hour had passed. Dean didn't know if he felt better or worse for all they'd said, but regardless, it was a full turn from the way they'd been before. It had been a long time, yet not much that could be talked about had happened to them after they'd parted - there were no good news to share, Sam had next to nothing to tell, Dean regretted most of what he'd been through and didn't want to bring it up, and the things that they, or at least Dean, wanted to talk about were topics that they weren't ready for.  
So in a while, they'd given up and started talking about things that did make them feel better, and they'd went over their old cases with the pretense that there might be something hidden there that could help them with the upcoming trials. It had been as close to bonding as they could get now, and at least it had given them both a few good laughs. Laughing was something Dean had missed, yet at the same time, it made him feel like crap.

Sam stopped at the edge of the forest to hug him, and while Dean didn't know what it was for, he let it happen, responding with an awkward pat on the younger's back.  
"I'll see you later, I sort of promised I'd look into gun training with Lotus today, and..."

Dean huffed amusedly.  
"No, that's fine. You go, man," he grinned and with a wink, slipped away from the radius of Sam's judgemental look, "I'll find you in the main cabin before midnight."

"Right."  
The tone of the taller's voice made his expression seem a little less condescending. Dean found himself still raising brows at the other when he'd already turned and taken the path towards Castiel's cabin. He was too hungry to think straight - and even then, he probably would have been wrong. They simply thought too differently with Sam.  
Either way, it sure did look like the younger was getting well along with the girl who'd threatened to shoot him in the head with a .45 just a couple nights earlier, and even though Dean still held some illogical grudges against the whole yoga-and-orgies group, Lotus wasn't the worst out of them. She was adapting well enough.

As the man climbed up the few stairs leading up to the once again open door of Castiel's cabin, he wondered where the rest of the girls were now that they'd stopped hanging with the angel - for some reason. It suddenly occurred to him that they should have returned by now.  
"Cas?" he called as he pushed through the beads, "Whatever happened to your orgy group?"

The older adjusted himself on the bed, looking mildly confused. Then his expression cleared. He raised a hand to cover a yawn and the kitten on his lap stood up, stretched and hopped off of the bed with a couple light leaps. Dean's nose itched.  
"I believe their interests have changed dramatically ever since we returned with the worst news imaginable," Castiel replied, watching Dean cross the cabin.

The kitten trotted through the main room and pushed past the beaded curtain. Dean glanced behind his shoulder and saw the thing landing on its fuzzy butt on the porch only to start frantically licking at its long hind leg.  
His head ached.

"So no more sex for you then?"  
The tone of his voice was unreasonably cheerful and relieved. He tried to mask it with the clanging of pans and cans as he gathered everything he would need to make a meal for the two of them on the counter. That done, he fetched a full container of water from the small corridor separating the doorway and the main room, plodded it on the floor and filled a kettle with water.

"No more orgies," Castiel replied delayedly, his voice somewhat thoughtful, "I certainly remember having sex after we returned to the camp, though, so on that part, you'd be wrong."

Dean choked. With weak hands, he turned around a can of brown meat sauce over a pan and watched the contents fall in one heavy cluster at a time. When he was scraping at the can's walls to get everything out, he heard Castiel getting out of bed and soon found the male standing right next to him, leaning to the counter he wasn't using on the other side of the stove. Castiel watched him, his expression unreadable.  
Dean paid him no attention, instead reaching for a can of vegetables to mix in with the sauce. The smell of gas filled the air slowly but certainly, overcoming the smells of the food momentarily. The balance would shift again when the sauce would start warming up. Nothing about the meal seemed appealing to Dean - he'd lost count on just how long he'd spent eating mostly canned foods that all seemed to taste the same, not like food but like everything that made them stay fresh for years, and despite his hunger, the smell was mostly making him feel sick.  
The only appealing part of what he was cooking up was the rice he intended to pour into the not yet boiling water.

"Cas, you're making me feel like a participant cook in Top Chef, so if you don't necessarily need to stand there judging my performance, please get the hell out."

The angel let out a soft huff and shook his head, turning his eyes away from Dean and the stove. He turned to stare absently at the window on the opposite wall, the one still protected by a line of salt and through which nothing could be seen due to its orange-and-white decorative glass.  
"I'm merely making sure you won't burn my cabin down. You could hardly operate a microwave before, so it's only natural that I'm suspicious."

Dean glared at him before throwing a couple grams of salt into the water and then into the sauce. Truth was, he was actually pretty good at cooking - and he'd certainly never set a fire. However, that wasn't anything he'd admit to. It was one of the things he'd never had the opportunity to be proud about, and he'd never really known how to talk about it either.

"Unlike you, I'm the one who still in fact _could_ operate a microwave - back when microwaves still were a thing that existed," he replied instead with a challenging tone to his voice.

Castiel looked down with a grin, glanced at Dean and then returned to watching the window.  
"A gas stove is a whole different matter, however."

"Guess we've all learned something, then," Dean grunted back at him, staring intently at the bubbles rising from the enamel bottom of the kettle, "I've learned to cook on a gas stove and you've learned to be an insufferable cunt."

Castiel licked his lips.  
"Am I supposed to be offended?" he asked, his eyes flashing upon Dean's profile with an amused sparkle in them, "Because if so, you've lost your edge."

Dean looked back at him, stared, and then chuckled wornly.  
"I don't know what to do with you, I swear," he replied with a sigh and poured in the rice.

"I've noticed," the angel replied lightly, "One moment you hate me and everything I stand or stood for, the next you're in my bed leeching on my affection, and the third you're running away yet returning to me anyway, brushing up against me while we sleep only to hate me again when you wake up. If I get to have an opinion on all of this, I think you should make up your mind, although I do enjoy the thrill your indecisiveness brings to my otherwise very dull and mostly depressing existence."

Some lazy, heavy bubbles rose from between the rice when Dean poked around at them.  
His heart was racing and a light layer of sweat had covered his forehead and his palms. He tried to pick apart words to form a coherent sentence, but he managed none that would make sense. With a swallow and some nipping at the inner side of his lip, he came to an illogical conclusion, turned towards Castiel and looked him in the eye.

"I don't know what I want," he said, "I don't know anything anymore. The only thing I really hate about you is that you still dare to address me as the man I was, and not the shell I've become."  
  
Castiel examined him for a moment. Then he nodded.  
"It makes sense. I'm not sure if you see that, but it's perfectly logical. You wear an armor that I ignore and refuse to acknowledge. I see past that and I know the man you pretend to be is not the same that you truly are. Nothing about that is you. And you're afraid of anyone who gets past that - myself, Sam, even Bobby - and you try your best to make us believe you're not worth the effort."

Dean sighed.  
He turned the heat down, mixed the food on the pan to prevent it from burning and eyed the boiling rice without really seeing it at all. He was thinking, but most of the thoughts passed by so fast he couldn't consciously grab a hold of them.

"I'm not," he finally declared and looked at Castiel, his eyes and expression both serious and lacking willpower, "I'm not worth it. I'm not worth any of you or any of your effort. Why the hell is it that you cling to me so hard? You could have left and you should have left. I'm nothing; I'm broken and I'm never going to be whole again."

"So am I. Dean, I don't regret the choice I made. I firmly believe I wouldn't be better off in heaven. I'm broken, I'm useless, I'm dead inside. All of heaven wouldn't fix that, and no amount of bitter thoughts and wishful thinking will change that either - part of me changed, and no matter where I am, I'll never be whole again. I was given a choice; to have the part of me that was still pure, righteous and absolute, or follow you down and embrace what I'd become when I shared myself with you. I chose you, because rather than becoming empty again, I desired the way I felt with you. I can't quite explain it."

Dean's mouth felt dry. He mixed the rice again and turned off the heat from under the pan.  
"Do you think you can handle meat after that vegan bullshit?" he asked in a soulless voice.

"Yes," Castiel replied casually, "I've been having the soup for days now and it certainly wasn't vegan."

"Great. Because I never thought of asking before I started making this."

"I find it rather curious that you did in the first place."

Dean glanced at the older and smiled dryly.  
"I'm only avoiding the subject," he reminded him with a hint of a grimace.

Castiel nodded.  
"Still. That's a polite way of avoiding it," he spoke with a smile.

Maybe it was. The smell of gas had disappeared again, and in a few more minutes Dean turned off the flame from the rice as well. He let out a sigh and leaned to the stove, uncertain and a discomfortable non-physical burn settling in his guts.  
"Can you forgive me?" he asked quietly.

Castiel placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled softly.  
"Haven't I already, again and again, forgiven you? Do you need me to say it - isn't it enough that I stay?"

Dean looked back at him and into his eyes, trying to find something from their expression, anything that might conflict or confirm his words. Then he realised he was the one who wasn't forgiving himself, and that that was the very reason he kept hurting Castiel.  
He was the person he was most afraid of, the one he hated, the one he wanted gone - not Castiel, himself. That had always been true.

He grimaced when his stomach cramped again.  
"I don't know if the rice is done, but I'm going to eat now anyway. It'll taste like crap no matter how well I've cooked it, so it's not like that makes a difference."

The angel let out a soft huff and nodded.  
Dean hesitated for a moment. Then he breathed out that hesitation and the uncertainty that still lingered inside him, and he took a single step closer to the angel, bringing their bodies together. Castiel reached an arm around his shoulders and he laid his head on the male's shoulder, closed his eyes and breathed.

"After that," the younger muttered, breaking free from the touch again to reach for a cup instead, finding that he didn't know how to finish the sentence properly.  
Everything he wanted to say sounded too awkward and made him too vulnerable.  
"I'd rather not talk."

He hoped Castiel understood what he meant, but he didn't dare to look to make sure.


	22. Shedding Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [We move lightly](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q8J0MXN9kE8)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _"I was put together wrong, still I was made for you_  
>  _When our stitches come undone, we come together like glue."_  
>  Carina Round - Do You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, it's that time again. _Porn time._

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The floor of the cabin was dustier now than it had been when they'd got there a week ago. Dean hadn't exactly had this close contact to it before either, but he could see that they'd recently brought in a fair bit of dirt and dust and dry pine needles and all other sorts of trash that Castiel had always cleaned up before. He laid on his stomach, arms under his head crossed over the large pillow and watched the floor with lazy curiosity, trying to process his meal before it'd tear his stomach apart. The consequences of eating without paying attention to the deed after first starving for a good while were always awful. Castiel was lying right next to him on a pillow of his own, although he was on his back and absently examining the ceiling instead. He'd lit an incense, and the heavy smoke lingered in the air like a dreamstate that attempted to sneakily suffocate Dean, whose body was already feeling much too heavy to move and unwilling to work for a steady supply of oxygen.

The younger male had found himself thinking about the angel's state - he didn't want to ask, not now when the other seemed somewhat content and relaxed, but he'd also noticed he had no idea how Castiel was feeling, and it bothered him. The wound and the withdrawals and everything else he wasn't complaining about that he probably should have been at least voicing had to be an enormous burden for him, and yet he was behaving like they didn't exist. He was too calm, too contained, so that nobody for certain would realise the way he struggled inside. If Dean hadn't irritated him out of that role earlier, he'd still live blissfully ignorant of what the angel was really going through. He still kept forgetting it. It was the invisible sort of suffering that truly did go unnoticed; the mask the angel wore was nearly perfect.  
What irked Dean the most was that he knew he had once been able to tell the difference between a mask like that and the truth beneath it, yet now he could truthfully say he wasn't able to anymore. Not on Castiel, not on Sam, not on himself. On each of those occasions he knew there was a mask but he didn't know what went on underneath. He'd never been this thick before.

Slowly, almost without him noticing, he'd turned around on his pillow and reached his hand across the short distance between the two of them. Castiel's fingers pushed between his and then they both fell motionless and passive again, the only difference being the warmth they now shared through that physical connection. Dean tried to remember why he'd been so busy before, always running somewhere to do anything at all, when now he had difficulty making up one single thing he should be doing instead of wasting time lying around like this. He knew things would change when he'd take part in the defense again, but nobody had so much as implied he was wanted on it, and a part of him was certain he had no place in the order of the camp anymore. It stretched much deeper than the official stripping of his leadership status, after all; he'd become irrelevant. Nobody would think it a bad thing when he'd drive out the gate.

Perhaps nobody would miss the rest of them either. Sam hadn't expressed a wish to stay, and even then, he was a very suspicious figure due to his past, and Castiel had hardly been very important to the daily routines before, even less now that he was wounded and his expertise in the situation wasn't as crucial as it had been. The game had changed, perhaps permanently - now it was a waiting game, and points were scored slowly through information and survival rather than holding up a constant aggressive stance and preparing quick, precise attacks on the enemy. It resembled hide and seek without the thrill of the hunt and with the additional, constant uncertainty of whether the party hiding was still even present in the game at all.

As it was, they were all mostly useless, a waste of resources that could be used to building up a community that had a chance of survival in the new world. Dean closed his eyes and tried not to think of where the world was headed for next. It seemed probable that the government would attempt to wipe off the resisting rogue alliances of outsiders existing beyond the safe zones. Unless Lucifer was preparing some sort of a move, and it seemed entirely unlikely that he wasn't, the game would turn to a very nasty twist with them facing the army as their enemy. The question mark in the middle remained. The hell's forces were the balancing factor, keeping the mostly left-in-the-dark governmental powers struggling with the strange threats the supernatural was flooding them with and the independent resistance movements struggling for survival in between the giants clashing together. Dean's group with all their unique insight had been a hidden weapon, and many other groups were led by hunters who were well aware of what was really going on, but they were far too few, small and insignificant to stand up against the strength of the militarised governments should the main enemy disappear. And the post-apocalyptic scenery had changed the way things were handled. Democracy was a thing of the past, the only thing that remained were the laws of the jungle. Eat or be eaten - for the common man, it was a question of submitting or being destroyed.  
The hunters, with all their understanding and weapons against the devil, were but common men in the face of the powers that breathed down their necks from the opposite direction to the one they were facing.

For the first time, Dean realised the true scale of the loss they'd suffered. Even if Lucifer would be defeated once and for all, the world would remain in a state of chaos. Even if the Croatoan virus would disappear along its creators, the damage it had caused would not. The control would not loosen up, there would be no return to what had been before. Lucifer was absolutely right about one thing: humans were flawed and murderous and they were their own downfall. He had succeeded, one way or the other. No matter how this would end, one thing was certain - society as it had been had not survived. It could take years, but they'd keep killing one another off, the chain reaction had started and it would not end before one by one the last surviving shreds of civilisation would die out.

And then, what would happen? Would anyone survive that? And if not, would the world simply continue on? Would forests grow in the hearts of the ruined cities, meadows take over the roads that had broken them apart, would rivers eat their way through and around the dams that had forced them into their beds like ropes tying down wild horses merely waiting for the day they'd be free again?

Would animals regain what humans had conquered for the brief while?  
Would the angels return, would God return, to look at the end of it all?

Dean hadn't even noticed he was crying before Castiel was holding him. Somehow, they were sitting now - he couldn't recall ever getting up, just like he couldn't recall the first tear or the moment his breathing had turned to that pitiful sobbing he was now aware of. He gripped the angel's shirt and his face was buried in his chest, but no matter how hard he cried or tried to find comfort in the older's warmth, there was nothing that would take this pain from him. He was standing at the end, facing the vast nothing that spread from on there, the story he had no part in. And there was nothing he could do to stop it, because it was unstoppable, a fate that a man could but submit to.

He'd never felt fear like that before. It wasn't the terror he'd faced at the thought of his own death, it was a whole different sort of horror, the sudden understanding of the scale of what he had been hopelessly struggling against. It wouldn't only be his own disappearance or the loss of those he loved, but the very end of all he'd ever known, for good - it was the knowledge that there would be nobody after him, no one to wake up to a new morning. That it'd all be gone, in such an insignificant amount of time, in a brief last stand that was already crumbling apart and caving in on them.

Dean's lips were numb from fear and the kiss they shared tasted of tears.

The younger's hand moved to the back of Castiel's neck, pulled down the collar of his shirt to touch his skin instead and to feel the fine, soft hair on the back of his neck. For an unexplainable reason he was hard and the chaos of terror inside him was translating into a need for physical contact. Clearly he was an animal and the only thing his biology knew was the need to reproduce in the wake of an upcoming disaster, there was no other explanation left for this madness. He laughed, the air that escaped his lips with the sound breaking through his tears and shedding them apart on both their skins. Castiel's fingers were in his hair and he pulled him back down into the kiss, and the laugher turned into another sob and then into a strange, choked sound that escaped through his nose. They kissed violently, teeth bruising their lips and the taste of blood from their chapped lips toning the salt that still controlled the experience, and their hands were undoing the clothes holding them apart with little thought spared to how much damage they sustained up in the process.  
The sound of ripping and tearing was ever present until they were skin on skin, Dean pressing Castiel against the floor, half a pillow stuck under the older's back. His abdomen was covered and supported by a belt of wide and rough bandage, and Dean wished he could have just pulled that off as well to feel him whole - his skin rubbed against the fabric and he made a frustrated sound, a long moan that died to the bite he received on the side of his neck.  
His hips pressed between Castiel's legs and the pressure against his erection caused a rush of endorphines and adrenaline to break loose inside him. His mind was full of the way the older's body felt, the coarseness of his hair bending between their skins and the heat of his cock brushing against Dean's. He was so warm and present and real, a perfect contrast to the thoughts that the uncalled for lust had forced back in Dean's mind, and the sounds he made, both pained and pleasured, were the sounds Dean needed to believe he was still there, still alive, still breathing and experiencing. That it wasn't yet over - that it wouldn't be over now.

Castiel was his sense of continuity, safety, stability, everything he needed was there in what he felt under him, only interrupted by the feel of the bandage and nothing more. His life pulsed in each flash of pleasure, the force of his survival instinct was present in every breath he drew in and every gasp and moan he let out, in every needy movement of his body, in everything they were together.

The angel's fingers dragged across Dean's back and he breathed heavily, head bent back as Dean pulled his hips up on his lap to gain the same control over him that he'd held over Dean the last time they'd been together. His fingers held the angel by the bone of his hips and pressed him down, and the response he got was a needy push against his groin. He didn't know which turned him on more - the way Castiel was telling him he wanted him, or the fact he expressed it in a manner that hurt him physically as the skin of his abdomen stretched. The tapes that held the gauze in place under the layer of bandages surely protected the wound, but they didn't hold tightly enough to prevent the movement from sparking up a response from the nerves in the area. For a reason Dean couldn't even begin to grasp, that knowledge was turning him on just as much as the sight of the male submitting to him like this.

He leaned over the angel to bite and suck at his neck, his fingers back in the dark hair of the older's, pulling and gripping them in a possessive manner. He wanted to mark the male his, make sure everyone would know just like everyone had known from the marks on his own neck that he had been taken - he wanted to leave a clear record of the way the angel was entirely under his control at this present moment so that it would be true even after it was over. His teeth left dark red bruises on the sensitive skin and his lips surrounded them with purple, and as he pressed his hips against Castiel's again, his mouth slipped onto his shoulder and he bit there as well, the tone of the act turning more curious than violent on the spot.  
The sounds Castiel made translated well to Dean. He knew the ecstacy a mixture of pain and pleasure caused, he'd been there before and it was like alcohol, it clouded the mind and left it without thoughts, light and relieved of conscious burden.

This wasn't enough.  
He needed more - he wanted to be inside the older, he wanted to take him like Castiel had taken him, wanted to make it certain that he truly was his now. In some strange way that he acknowledged as he stumbled free from the pose they'd taken and then up to the box they'd hidden under the bed again, sleeping with the angel with their roles reversed would complete a circle. It'd finish something he hadn't known was still unfinished.

He reached for the container on top of the rest. Jasmine.  
The scent was jasmine, and the bottle was still slippery from the last time it had been opened and closed. Dean brought it with him, opened it, left it next to them when he resumed the pose he'd left from - Castiel raised his body just enough for him to pull him over effortlessly. The light of the setting sun pouring in from the window illuminated his face and the way he looked at Dean was nothing short of determined. Neither of them paid attention to the fact that the door was wide open behind them and the beads were slowly rattling against one another in a gentle breeze of wind.

Dean slipped his fingers into the angel's hot-feeling flesh, the scent of the oil numbing down his sense of smell, drowning out the dust and the evening's unique scents like they'd never existed at all. They held an eye contact to one another the whole time he moved his finger inside the older, both breathing through parted, bruised, swelling lips and occasionally letting out huffs through the nose like they weren't sure how to breathe properly anymore, and both their faces were hot with rushing blood and their eyes shone with the lust they felt.  
One finger, two fingers - the tight feel that pressed Dean's fingers together from the second joint on like they were tied together made his body shake with impatience and need. Each movement of the older's hips he felt on his hands and on his thighs made him want to scream out loud from the need for more, but he was determined to not make a sound now, as all he wanted to hear were the sounds the angel was making for him, for those told him exactly just how good he was making him feel.

Finally he begun to feel like he'd done his job here the best he could, and as he leaned to pour more of the oil on his hand, he felt Castiel spreading his legs apart on his lap and pushing forwards like he was just as impatient as Dean was.  
The younger moved over him so that they were face to face - he didn't dare to close his eyes so he wouldn't miss a single thing as he joined their bodies together, not even as the wave of pleasure shook him from head to toe and forced a long, low sound of pleasure from his throat.

He brought his arm under Castiel's neck and kissed him, barely able to hold still while the older adjusted to him and relaxed again, letting him closer and closer by the moment. The permission to move came in the form of a very impatient thrust from the angel himself, and Dean let out a relieved sigh into the kiss they still shared when he finally let his hips relax into the other male's embrace, pulling back slowly as he allowed them both to get used to the feeling. The amount of pleasure he felt from each moment he simply held the angel against him was insane, like nothing he'd felt before in his whole life, only intensified by the flood of emotion he'd been through earlier. They were breathless but they couldn't break from the kiss as their bodies rocked together, the oil between them making wet sounds. Its strong scent mixed with the thick incense still burning quite close to them, and the resulting air was intoxicating. Beneath it all, Dean could still smell Castiel as his nose pressed against his skin and he drew air from its surface, and somehow, they seemed to share the same heartbeat as he moved inside him. The angel had his legs around him, pulling him closer and closer like he didn't want him to pull back at all, only reluctantly allowing him that for the sake of their common pleasure. Their kisses were still heated but not violent or aggressive anymore, as all of that agitation was now relieved through the rythm of their joined hips and it was all they needed to relax and experience. In minutes, the whole feel of their sex had changed, it was less about control and release than it was about becoming one, and little by little they stopped watching each other, their eyes slipping closed to let the body feel, replacing unnecessary visual distraction with a deepened sense of touch and union.  
  
There was something fundamentally different about making love with Castiel to how it had been with anyone Dean had shared the experience with before, and he acknowledged that better now that they'd come back to this on his terms. It wasn't just the way the angel had been different in his performance - nothing about how Dean went on this time differed much from how he'd done it before either. It was something about the male himself and them together that was different. Their sex wasn't just the act their bodies were joined in, it happened on a level that was completely strange for Dean, one that seemed to happen on a realm that had little to do with their bodies or the physical pleasure they received, and more with the feelings that resulted from the connection they shared in a wholesome manner, as if it was the result of all this combining, some kind of a manifestation of each feeling coming together as one.  
It was even more intoxicating than the scents were, and the more Dean felt in tune with the angel, the stronger and more overwhelming the feel of that other level became until it was driving him right past the edge and making him wish he could just cry out loud to let the feeling out.

He held onto Castiel, knowing his mouth was pressing against the older's ear now and forming words he didn't hear nor really feel he was in control of, as his hips pushed into the angel's and brought him closer, closer and closer to the point where he wouldn't be able to take it anymore. His hand was somewhere between them making sure Castiel felt as good as he did, just another subconscious decision he'd made without noticing it himself.  
His mind was full of noise, sounds, words and sentences and feelings mixing together as one, bound by everything he sensed with his body and the strange sensation of experiencing with his very soul at the same time, and only one message came through clear: _not yet, not yet, not yet, not yet_ until he was ready.

His nails dragged marks into the skin stretching across the angel's shoulderblades, clawing past where his wings would have been if they were physical, his skin burning as his fingers passed that area, and that was the moment that pushed him right past the edge and made his mind drown into a flood of bliss like nothing he'd ever experienced before.  
Somewhere far from him as if exprienced by someone else altogether, he felt the thick warmth of the older's release on his hand, and he acknowledged it with a smile as the sound of his blood rushing in his ears started to settle again. He found himself panting on top of the angel with the older's fingers in his hair, stroking him gently and slowly as they caught their breaths. Dean experienced a strange flash of disappointment as he felt his body slipping out of the older's severing the physical connection between them, but as soon as he realised that the stronger sense of union had not disappeared with that, the disappointment was washed away by surprise and happiness instead: a deep, strong sort of happiness that felt like it was melting into his flesh and becoming a permanent part of him.

He shivered and breathed out a wavering little sigh.

There was a thought inside him, a knowledge of something he wished he was brave enough to say aloud, to acknowledge, to make concrete, but he was still too afraid to let it past his guard. He was still too damaged to accept or embrace it - so instead, he held onto his angel tighter and closed his eyes.  
Slowly through the mist of fading bliss he felt a strange, unwelcome ache drilling its way into his consciousness, and soon after his nerves registered not only that but a strong stinging pain all around his hand. Something liquid trickled down his wrist, but he was so tired - already half-asleep - that the sensations didn't strike him as odd at all. Most likely it was the dream taking a hold of him, a ghost of a feeling his mind mistakingly thought was real.


	23. Leaking Flames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I'm pretty sure I got diabetes from editing this chapter. Sorry.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Dean was certain not much time had passed before he woke up again to a godawful pain throbbing throughout his arm. He let out a hissing sound and tried to pull his hand in front of his face, but his arm was under Castiel and the only thing he achieved with that movement was to make the older grunt unsatisfiedly as he woke up to the tug.  
"Cas, get off my arm, it hurts like hell."

The angel yawned as he pulled himself up. In the dark Dean couldn't make out his features, but his pale skin reflected just enough light for him to know that Castiel was looking at him.  
"Can you light a candle? Son of a... You wouldn't believe exactly how much pain I am in right now."

The older managed into an upright position and dragged himself to the table with the Buddha statue on it. In a moment, Dean heard a match scratching the side of its box and then, a small flame lit the room. It caught onto first one candle, then another, until five were lit and they could finally see something. What Dean saw, however, made him question whether he was awake or not. And the same thought seemed to hit Castiel as well when the male turned back and landed on one of the pillows next to where Dean was half-sitting with his scorched hand in front of him.  
"What the..."

The younger jumped when Castiel grabbed his wrist and turned the hand towards himself. With a disbelieving huff, the angel was soon back on his feet and crossing the room. The air in the room was cold - they'd never closed the door, and the evening had crawled indoors while they'd slept. Dean wasn't wearing any clothes, and the only thing that had kept him warm was now digging the bed's underside for the first aid kit. With a burn like this all over his hand, Dean couldn't even consider putting on any clothes, so he was left there, staring at his hand without really understanding what he was seeing as the rest of him kept shivering from cold and pain. The skin on his hand looked like someone had tied a flame around it and held for a good second - the worst burnt parts were cracked open and leaking clear liquid, and the rest of his hand was nothing short of useless, he couldn't even move his fingers. No joints, fat or muscle was visible, for which he was grateful, but a wound like this could in their conditions prove fatal nonetheless. Burns were the ideal breeding ground for bacteria, and an infection in one this big was something people went to hospital for in much better conditions than that were present for them.

"How bad is it?" Castiel asked as he landed on his knees on the pillow, opening the box as he spoke.

"Mild second degree, the skin's coming off. Where the hell did I get this from?"

Dean tried to squeeze the information out of his brain. He hadn't woken up to it happening, he'd woken up to it aching, and aching happened afterwards. There was no candle anywhere near them, and none had been burning before. Castiel took his hand by the wrist again and examined it closer. His mouth was a thin line as he concentrated, gently but determinedly turning his hand around to see the less affected upperside. The palm had definitely taken the worst of it.  
"I don't know," the angel said after a moment of silence, letting his hand down and looking him in the eye, "but I need to boil water so we can clean it. We need someone to help us, so I'll go look for Sam while we wait for the water. You're going to need some alcohol. This'll be painful for you."

Dean nodded. It was already painful for him and he knew it wasn't getting any better anytime soon. With trembling legs, he got up.  
"Help me get dressed," he muttered, picking up his pants from the floor with his useful hand.

Castiel followed him up, nodding, and held the other side up while Dean made his way back into his pants. He flashed a thankful grin at the older before stumbling towards the bedroom where he'd last seen their whiskey.  
"We need more of this."

"I'll make sure to bring a bottle or two," Castiel replied from the kitchen.

Dean took a long gulp straight out of the bottle. They weren't going to be cleaning any wounds with this particular brewerage any longer, so the amount of saliva mixing in the drink was irrelevant now. When he was done and waiting for the whiskey to travel down his system, he walked back to the main room and landed heavily back on the pillow. Castiel was fully dressed already, but they both smelled of jasmine oil and Dean felt just as dirty as he'd felt the last time he'd had that on his skin. They shared a look before the angel left the cabin. He still didn't close the door behind him, and every now and then Dean could feel wind moving through the cabin. It made the flames on the candles sway and the shadows dance on the walls. He drank more, waited, drank again and waited some more. On the stove, the water was slowly starting to boil, the sound of it like someone was grinding salt in a kettle. He drank again and cursed under his breath as the pain grew worse.

Suddenly his eyes caught movement from the bedroom. The kitten had come back - knowing it had crept past them while they'd slept made Dean feel rather ashamed, like it was a child that had just witnessed them in very inappropriate contact, but once he caught himself from the thought he reminded himself that this was an animal, it didn't care about sex, not even if it happened right in front of it. He reached out his hand and tempted the cat closer with his curiously moving fingers, and the grey kitten hesitated, then turned its course and moved to him.

"Hey, Luci. Did you burn me? Got back at me for sleeping with your caretaker or what? Is that it?" he muttered, a crooked smile hung upon his features.  
The kitten sniffed at his fingers keenly, its nose vibrating every now and then as it found something it concentrated on. Then it lost interest in the smells and walked right onto him, settled in the pit between his crossed legs and curled up. Its head stayed in an alert position as it watched the room calmly. Dean didn't know what it saw, but the kitten didn't appear all that interested either, so it was probably nothing he'd notice anyway.

In a few minutes, it was purring again. Dean drank from the bottle, leaving behind only one more mouthful. It was much too little for his liking. The pain hadn't been affected at all yet - and maybe it wouldn't be. He couldn't get drunk off of his ass so the chances were the comfort he gained from drinking would remain entirely on the psychological level.

The kitten raised its head again when Castiel returned. Sam came in after him, holding a large bottle of what looked like rum to Dean, but he couldn't be sure since it had no label on it whatsoever. While Castiel moved right off to look at the boiling water, Sam dropped on his knees next to Dean and seemed to be struggling not to laugh.  
Dean stared at him as he handed the bottle to him.

"Okay, show it," the younger prompted.  
  
Letting out a sigh, Dean held out his hand again. Seeing the wound seemed to take whatever had been so funny out of Sam's mind. He examined the burn and licked his lips absently.  
  
"Cas will clean it up. I'll go find what else we need. Antibacterial cream at least, or something as close to that as possible. If not, honey."

"Sam."

Sam raised his eyes to Dean questioningly.  
  
"What time is it?" the older asked in a tired voice.  
He felt conflicted about all the attention he was getting, and he still didn't know whether he should be salting and burning the cabin just in case it was haunted. On one hand, it felt good to know somebody gave a crap about him. In this case, two somebodies who just happened to be the people who meant the most to him - it was a good feeling, to know that they truly felt like that about him too. On the other, it made him feel weak and useless and one hundred percent more awkward and embarrassed.

"Some past nine I think. I mean, it was close to nine when Cas grabbed me from the main cabin and told me to come take a look at your hand."  
Suddenly, Sam couldn't hold back the snort anymore and he turned away from Dean to let it out. Once more, Dean stared at him unimpressedly.  
"Sorry. I just... it's sort of hilarious, you know? I'm going to go looking for the cream and steril gauze before you break that bottle on my head."  
The younger hopped back up and chuckled.  
"Seriously man, I'm sorry - but... never mind."

Dean made a movement with the hand he was holding the bottle with, prompting a quick leave from the younger. Then he sighed and a small smile spread on his lips. Castiel came to him, holding the kettle in a nest made of towels. He placed it on the floor and sat down in front of Dean, picking out a clean white towel from the bottom of the kit, unused and good enough for cleaning the wound.

"You know," Dean mumbled, holding out his hand again and bracing himself for the excruciating pain that would come much too soon for his liking, "I have no memory at all from where I got this from. I mean, when we... you know. And I felt like a burn, but it couldn't have been that, right? I would have noticed if I burned my hand on _you_."

Castiel stopped mid-motion. Slowly, carefully, he lifted his eyes to Dean and examined his face. He almost seemed scared.  
Finally he spoke, dipping the white cloth into the water and raising it back, letting the water drip and the cloth to cool down as the words slipped out his mouth.

"It's possible for your brain to block out the pain signal," he reminded the younger, "Especially if you're preoccupied. Small wounds, large wounds, it doesn't matter. Technically, if it had happened at that point, you might not have noticed it at all."

"I felt some pain," Dean said, unsure if it made any difference or what he was even arguing for, "Minor. I thought it was nothing. That I imagined it."

Castiel licked his lips. There was something he really wanted to ask but was clearly afraid of voicing. He seemed hopeful and doubtful. Dean waited, but when nothing happened, he finally shifted and motioned the older to take the cloth onto his burn.  
After the initial wave of pain was gone and he'd taken a large mouthful out of his bottle, he could barely speak. Castiel avoided eye contact as he returned the cloth to the kettle and pulled it out again, letting the water drip, drip, drip.  
Drip.

"Did it happen when your hands were upon my back?"

"Yeah, around your shoulder bla-... Son of a bitch. Do you think that's it?"

Castiel avoided looking at him.  
"No. Of course not," he answered almost without a moment of delay.

Dean let out a rough shriek of pain as the wet cloth touched his hand again - that was a lot from him, but the pain was nearly unbearable, the sort that blacked out his vision and left his head full of ringing noise long after the shock had settled.  
  
Castiel retracted the cloth with a frustrated sigh.  
"I really don't know," he admitted before patting Dean's hand again.

A muffled, breathless and strained chuckle escaped the younger.  
"You know... it'd be really ironic for me to die to a burn I get from having sex with an angel."

"That'd serve you right."

"Yeah. Still, you better clean it well."

Castiel smiled.  
"I will," he said and his voice was softer now.

The manner he was cleaning the burn was both gentle and careful, as if he could sympathise with the amount of pain each touch caused Dean. Little by little the younger's skin grew numb to the touch and the sharp pain was once more overcome by the duller aching despite the water that cleaned the burn inch by inch, crawling slowly from the top down and onto the palm. When the cloth was in the middle of Dean's hand, Castiel pressed it a little harder.  
"Hold it," he said and looked Dean in the eye.

Dean tried to bend his fingers and to his surprise, the water had returned some of the elasticity to his skin so that unlike before, he could now move his fingers. He grabbed the wet cloth and held it on spot, weakly but determinedly while Castiel watched him do it.  
Finally, the angel pushed his fingers apart and took the cloth back.  
"Sam gets well along with Jack," he noted then.

Was he actually chitchatting?  
He had to be. Dean's lips parted in surprise.  
  
"Really now? Well, they're both nerds, so maybe it isn't such a big surprise."

Castiel huffed. He took Dean's bottle and drank a little out of it, landing it back on the floor afterwards. He dipped the whole cloth into the already cooled down water, carefully straightened Dean's fingers and wrapped the dripping wet fabric around his hand. It felt good. It seemed to immediately calm the pain down and make it easier to endure.  
  
"Speaking of Sam... the hell was so funny about this to him anyway?" Dean muttered, taking his turn with the bottle.  
The alcohol was starting to have an effect on him, and the feeling of slowly building intoxication was more than welcome.

"I'd guess he simply found it hilarious that you managed to get yourself burnt while having sex, just like _you_ thought it was funny. I mean, it is kind of ironic - and he's not stupid. Look at us. Look at my neck, Dean, I can barely turn my head at all. Every single thing about this scenery screams sex."

Dean grimaced.  
"Does it?" he breathed out the rhetorical question tiredly, leaning back with some difficulty and a pained sound when Castiel took his hand again.  
He didn't get an answer before Sam came back in, making a lot of unnecessary noise as he approached the cabin's door. That was good enough for an answer. The younger was clearly up to date with everything Dean would rather have kept secret from him.

"Hey," he greeted them after closing the door and kicking off his shoes, "Found everything. Antiseptic cream, clean bandages, gauze pads - the amount of things you've managed to gather here is amazing, Dean. How many of you stayed here before everything went to hell?"  
The youngest man dropped on his knees next to them as Castiel begun undoing the wet cloth that they'd wound around the burn. He was so careful that it hardly hurt more than having had the cloth there in the first place, and when it was gone, so was a portion of the pain.  
  
"Let me wash my hands."

Castiel pushed the kettle closer to Sam and Sam did his best to get his hands cleaned with that water - he dried his hands rigorously to a clean towel he'd brought with him, then washed his hands again and dried them, repeating once more just to be sure. Dean watched him with passive, drunken interest.  
  
He'd brought a lot of things: three containers of the cream and all the rest was in a huge heap of packages full of varying sorts of cloths inside. There were clean bandages and gauze pads that were still in their plastic wrappings, and now that Dean looked closer, one of the creams wasn't antiseptic, it was a moisturising cream. He felt dizzy.  
"I thought you studied for law school, Sam."

"Yeah?"  
The younger's voice was confused.

Dean pointed at the makeshift hospital he'd built for them and looked him in the eye, both impressed and mocking.  
"Looks like you should have studied to be a nurse instead. I mean, look at this. You just need a pretty white skirt and -"

"Shut up, Dean," Sam choked with a grin on his face, "You know well where I've learned all of this. Besides, as you're well aware, most nurses wear blue pants these days. You're thinking porn again, and honestly, that's creepy in this context."

Dean rolled his eyes. They stopped upon Castiel, who was looking back at him and at the sudden eye contact broke into a surprised smile. It was contagious, and Dean felt his lips curving up to mirror it in turn.  
He felt warm and good despite the pain in his hand, but he wasn't concentrating, and when Sam started spreading a thick layer of the cream on the burn, he let out a quiet yelp.  
"You could have warned me first, you know," he gasped, rubbing at the back of his neck as if it could somehow help him cope with the feel of the ice cold cream settling onto his hand.

"Sorry, I didn't know I was being stealthy. Come on, Dean. Don't be a wuss."

"That's sort of my line, Sam."

"Shut up."  
  
"So is that one," Castiel pointed out, smirking tiredly.  
He gathered his legs up against his chest and watched them with so much warmth it was borderlining uncomfortable, like they were his favourite puppies playing adorably with each other.

"Cas," Dean grunted awkwardly, "stop staring."  
Sam glanced at him in passing and let out a quiet chuckle.


	24. Eggs, Rust and Sweat

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Chuck raised his head and listened to the quiet. His hand slipped off the table and fell limp on his lap instead, and it seemed to prompt him to pull his legs up on the chair he occupied. Absently, he licked his lips and tilted his head. Out of the five frequences he was tuned to, this one was the least interesting. That was unusual.  
A smile passed his features. He relaxed, leaning back and letting out a heavy, pleased sigh. A lot was still going on, things that he liked and things he did not. In time, they would all change. He wondered whether the three of them here would play their part or if they'd choose not to, or if they'd pick the wrong choices again. Elsewhere, his attention turned to a realm where they'd made all the wrong choices and turned out all the better for it. That had been unexpected. This, not so much. This was as he'd expected. Even after he'd snapped his fingers - entered the plot twist - it was still as he'd expected.

For that, there had to be a shocker on the way.

He pondered Lucifer and wondered how long it would take him to prepare the temporary vessel. Poor guy had definitely drawn the shortest stick, although the one left for Sam hadn't been so good either. Still, at least he was important.  
Would this serve as a lesson for anyone at all?  
Chuck was starting to doubt it. Perhaps he was the only one whose mind was open for experience.

Funny, that.

He raised his tea cup up to his lips and drank. The taste made him grimace. In the continued full silence, the steaming liquid turned dark and swirled softly as its contents changed. He'd rather have a cup of creamy hot chocolate tonight. Too bad the rest of the camp could have none of this, for it was quite tasty, especially now that they had so little tasty things left to consume.  
With a pleased grunt, the man stretched his neck, laid the cup down and resumed writing. Every night he counted less of everything, excluding the evenings after succesful raids when some of the statistics jumped up for the time being.  
Tonight, they would run out of eggs.  
Tomorrow would bring a couple new ones.  
Perhaps three.

Yes, tomorrow would bring them three eggs. The number was very fitting.

*

The day after had dawned with a rising temperature and very little responsibilites to attend to.

"Okay," Dean huffed and slammed his good hand on the Impala's roof, "I've had it with you."

Sam raised his eyes to the older and raised his brows. Dean grinned.

"Sam, it's time for you to be a man for my girl. I can't do crap with my hand like this, and there's too much to do for me to just wait until maybe my fingers bend again and I won't be catching an infection from just looking at dirt anymore. I showed you some basic things earlier but that just won't do now, so instead, I'm going to sit here and guide you right through everything I would be, should be, doing. Desperate times, desperate means. Are you with me?"  
  
"Basically," Sam grimaced. He leaned to the car's front and stared into its gut.

Dean knew he didn't understand any of what he saw, the last time they'd spent time fixing the thing together he'd barely remembered the names of the parts, and even after that course in car anatomy he was still lacking the fundamental understanding of how the things worked. That was unfortunate, but they'd get through it somehow. The suicide mission they were on demanded Impala's attendance. He wouldn't die driving a godsdamned jeep.

"We're also going to need some extra space. Ugh... Sam, I'm going to say it. We need to take this thing apart and dig some holes into it. Like the seats, they take so much space we could use for... you know, everything else. So we need to..."  
  
"Turn them more useful?"  
  
"Yeah."  
Dean opened his mouth, then grimaced.  
"Ouch."

"Yeah," Sam chuckled, "I know things are bad but bad enough for you to actually talk about changing the car..."  
  
"Well," Dean uttered painedly and nodded at the thing, "You see what condition she's in. She's going to go through so many changes anyway that she'll cease being the Impala we knew. The least I can do is to make sure she'll be Optimus Prime next and not some damn rusted, creaky coffin on four wheels."

Sam licked his lips and kept staring at the engine. Dean picked up the tool box from the ground and moved it on the moldy chair he'd brought and set up between them so they wouldn't need to constantly bend down to pick things up. It was nearly the correct height for him - for Sam, not so much, but that couldn't be helped.  
"Okay, take this. Bring it to that cable there and pull it up a little. Good. Okay - Christ - _man_. No. _God_. Okay, this is going to be _a lot_ harder than I initially thought, what the hell is that?"

"What... is what?" Sam huffed confusedly.

"That... doesn't look the way it should. Scrape off the rust, maybe we can still save it. Good. Okay, yeah, we can do it. I think - maybe."

The day was getting hotter by the moment, as if summer had decided to charge right back in, pushing the hints of the approaching autumn aside like piles of leaves that had not yet gathered under the still green trees. In fifteen minutes, Dean was already sweating, and Sam had started much earlier, what with all the work he was doing that Dean was not. At first, he was so awfully clumsy Dean was barely brave enough to watch, but then, he grew more confident, beginning to take the task at face value rather than fearing he'd mess it up, and the more confident he got, the faster Dean could gather the full picture.

If it had been just any car, fixing it would have been easier, but the Impala was a senior car, a car with so much history behind her she was both irreplaceable and extremely fragile. Fragile things tended to suffer greatly when abandoned like he'd abandoned the Chevy, and this was the result. There was a constant nagging voice whispering into his ear that it was a lost cause, they'd never manage to get her running again, and that voice was most likely correct - but hell if he wouldn't try.

It didn't help that he'd lost yet another night's good sleep for the pain in his hand. He was high on painkillers but that didn't mean he wasn't still in pain, and he'd even suffered a brief fever and a sudden wave of intense nausea during the early hours. Castiel hadn't had an easy one either. Dean knew it was because of the withdrawals. He looked sickly again and for the whole day so far he'd done nothing but avoided contact with anyone - he tried to hide it the best he could but sometimes, all the involuntary movements and the anxiety and other, more random and temporary symptoms simply couldn't go unnoticed. He was on edge at all times, snapping when addressed and demanding incoherently that he wasn't to be disturbed. So, they weren't disturbing him. They'd left him in the cabin to meditate on his misery, drowning himself in cat hair and incenses.

Now that the kitten had stayed there for days, Dean was starting to feel like his nose was stuffed and his lungs were closing in nearly all the time, and as for the day, the cabin was closed and there was no way for fresh air to get in. If he'd stayed there - a thought that had at first seemed very tempting, even if it meant he'd have to stay out of the way and unspeaking the whole time - he would have ended up sneezing every ten seconds and feeling like he wasn't only raising a fever but also catching a serious cold.  
Therefore, the only place Dean currently could relax at was ironically at work.

He intended to take a few hours later in the day to crawl into his own bed for a change, and Sam had promised to make sure Castiel wasn't left in as much solitude as the angel probably preferred, for his own good and for the peace of the older brother's mind as well.

After nearly seventy minutes of nothing but work on the car, Sam finally stood up and asked for a break. Dean agreed on it with a gulp out of a much-used plastic bottle. They had a container full of water next to them and two small bottles they refilled each time they drank one empty. Dean didn't need all that much but Sam was on his third bottle already.

"So... what was he high on?" the younger asked, returning Dean's thoughts to Castiel just when he'd managed to take them off him.

Dean looked at him searchingly before letting out a defeated sigh and looking away.  
"What wasn't he high on?" he muttered, fingers scraping at the tape over his wrist that was holding his bandages together, "What he's detoxing from is pretty certainly the amphetamines, though. He's really big on the stimulants, apparently it makes him feel... more normal. You know, takes away the hunger, the thirst, the need to sleep, returns his vessel to a state he can pretend he never lost his mojo to begin with. I can get that. Doesn't mean I ever liked it. I tried to tell him - tried to convince him to drop it before it got bad, back when I still cared, or before I managed to appear I didn't anyway."

Sam's lips pursed together and he looked down at his lap and the bottle he held between his thighs.

"I could take the weed. He used that to come down, it took the edge from the fall or something. I don't really care about why or how but nearly seventy percent of the time up until now he's been high on something and it never made him any better."  
He grimaced, but felt like he could now look back at Sam, even when the younger raised his gaze and met his eyes.

"At least he fights it now," Sam thought uncertainly.

Dean tilted his head indecisively.  
"I'm not sure how to take it," he replied frankly, "I didn't think he'd ever try. What for?"

Sam brushed off his hair that was sticking to his wet face. He licked his lips and let his eyes drift off towards something new, and the grounds around them reflected faintly from them.  
"For us? Has he ever changed his ways for anything else?"

The reply made Dean smile. It also made him feel afraid.  
"Back to work?" he cut off the approaching silence.

"Yeah."


	25. Support Group for Addicts Identified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> _I’m your charity case_   
> _So buy me something to eat_   
> _I’ll pay you another time_   
> _Take it to the end of the line._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short to compensate for short on Tuesday. Makes sense, right?

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The quiet of the cabin felt surprisingly unfamiliar to Dean now. He'd spent the past week always in someone's company, excluding the few times he'd been briefly occupied with something alone or working with the car. Now he was here, in his own cabin that hardly felt like his anymore, lighting a fire into the fireplace and feeling oddly void of all purpose once more. He hadn't even locked the door, perhaps in the hopes that someone would come to him and redeem him from his newfound loneliness, even though he was certain nobody would come. Once the fire was starting, he climbed onto the bench by the table and started patting the bandages around his hand with a wet towel. He kept applying water onto it until his hand was free of it and the soaked pads underneath - a tedious, slow process, during which the fire had grown into a proper blaze, confined safely in its basin. In the light of both the glow of the fire and that of the sun, Dean cleaned the burn with the wet towel, his face expressionless aside the occasional grimace when he hit a spot where the touch felt particularly nasty. Then he spread a new thick white layer of the antiseptic cream on the wound, taped the end of a new, fresh bandage to his wrist, surrounded the wound with clean soft pads and wrapped it all up until he felt the hand was safe from all harm. With a sigh, he rubbed at the tape to make sure it wasn't falling off even while he slept, and then started cleaning up the mess he'd made. He threw the old bandages and pads into the fire along with the plastic wrappings of the new ones, vaguely thinking how hard everything was when you only had one hand to work with, and once he was done, he only had one goal: to sink into the softness of his bed and sleep until tomorrow.

Sam had prepared food for the two of them at the main cabin and promised to take some to Castiel in case he was feeling like eating. They'd made plans for extra space inside the seats and Sam would work on them for the rest of the day. For once, Dean trusted him. He was very good at solutions like this and Dean was certain that Sam would do a much better job at it than he would should he try carving out the seats himself, which he, of course, now wasn't able to do anyway. That was the only part of the car Dean would ever let Sam go near with the intention of changing them without himself staying there to watch. He hoped he wouldn't have to be disappointed.

He pulled up the blue hem of his blanket and threw it aside before sitting on his bed. It creaked welcomingly underneath him and the lack of cat in the air made him feel refreshed already. There was no cloud of kitten hair flying up all around him, just light swirls of dust everywhere as he leaned forwards to pull off his socks and then straightening up again to remove his shirt. It got stuck at the base of his wrapped-up hand and tugged at it, causing his body to tense up instinctively before relaxing again and continuing the movement with a slightly harder pull to send the shirt's fabric sliding free of the tape it had caught onto. Dean's fingers absently brushed the sticking end of the tape back down as his other hand delivered the shirt into a messy pile on a chair next to the bed. He rubbed at his arm, yawned and dropped down on his back onto the bed, turning his eyes to scan the ceiling. His fingers reached for the blanket, pulled it up and he curled into a fetal position underneath it, closing his eyes.  
The scent of his own mattress felt only distantly familiar, like it was someone's he'd once known and then forgotten. It reassured him somehow, made him feel comfortable. A bee buzzed near the window, knocked into it, flew away. Wind rustled the leaves in the trees.

It was a perfect afternoon.

*

Castiel reached to light the candle. His hand trembled as he brought it up and towards the wick sticking out of the cool, solid yellow wax, but the fire caught soon and he relaxed. As the tension left his muscles, the trembling stopped for a moment. He turned to look at Sam who watched him from a few feet away, a tired smile on his face and a light in his blue eyes. Sam responded to the smile weakly and uncertainly. Cool air pushed indoors from behind him, smelling of early night time. It would be a cold one, it had the scent.

"I'm sorry for today," the angel said after a moment.  
Sam nodded briefly, deciding it was for the best if he sat down so as to not tower six feet above the older. He landed on the carpet covering the floor. The pillows were stacked in front of the bed and he didn't know if it was polite to just go and get one, so he did not.

"I understand," he replied in an honest tone, not finding it in himself to actually face Castiel now.

The older nodded with a quiet hum.

Something emerged from under the bed and made its way towards Sam. He jumped a little to the notion of it, but it was only the kitten that had taken residence in the cabin. He was more a dog person, but as the small animal reached him, he offered it his hand and watched it sniff at his fingers with a fondness pressing at his heart. Animals, for one reason or another, offered comfort to many people who had been through things they had no words for. Sam didn't find it strange that he was one of these people now.  
Gently, he picked up the cat and placed it in the middle space between his crossed legs. It climbed out and landed softly on the carpet, but Sam picked it up again and returned it on his lap, and this time, it stayed. It sat down looking confused, then started licking itself, seemingly accepting the spot and the change in its plans.

Castiel was watching it too.  
"Did you know cats wash themselves when they feel insecure?" he asked.

Sam opened his mouth to say something, but only a huff came out. He looked at the kitten and the way it pawed the backside of its spotted ear.  
"Really?"

"You confused him."

Sam smiled.  
"I guess, then. But they wash themselves all the time."

Castiel examined him for a moment.  
"For different reasons. Though, it is also possible they're often uncertain. You're fresh and washed too. Were you insecure? Did someone pick you up too?"

The younger let out a chuckle and brushed his hair back behind his ears. He noticed, in a sort of a dizzying manner, that it was a human reflection of what the kitten was doing.  
He definitely was insecure and confused. He looked up again and grinned.  
"We were working on the car," he explained, "The whole day. I smelled like death afterwards."

"Like a roadkill, I'd imagine," Castiel huffed amusedly with a strange fondness in his tone, "Dirt, rubber, oil and sweat."

Sam tilted his head, his brows knitting together with the awkward sort of a smile he wore mixing together to produce the very image of confusion. Castiel raised brows at him and let out a chuckle.  
"I'd forgotten," he said quietly, "that you don't know the new me."

Sam's forehead smoothened again, a sort of enlightenment replacing the confusion. He raised his head a little and let out an 'ah', turned his eyes away and let his gaze stray until it found the Buddha on the table. Castiel moved to sit in a half-lotus position and then for a long while, neither of them moved. The cat kept licking at its paws and its chest and its barbed tongue ran through its fluffy, wooly fur like a comb over and over again.

In five minutes, the angel finally let out a sort of a pissed off little sound and aimed his eyes at Sam, who in turn looked back at him, clearly off the map again. The older's expression softened at the sight of him and he flashed a quick smile to easen Sam's mind. Sam couldn't help wondering about how different this Castiel was even now to the one he'd known. That Castiel would have never picked up on any of his emotions unless they were expressed in an overly clear manner - this Castiel, on the other hand, had no trouble reading his faintest reactions and undertones of his expressions and voice.

"What?" he asked to prompt the other to go on, encouraging him with the knowledge he'd forgiven the brash start.

"I feel miserable."

Sam smiled a smile that had nothing to do with happiness. It was, at best, empathetic.  
"How long have you been... off?" he asked cautiously.

"Five days. Today is by far the worst of them."

"And... amphetamines?"

Castiel sighed and adjusted his position.  
"Speed and more," he grunted and cracked his neck twice in a frustrated turn of his head, "Seemed like a good idea to just stop everything at once, you know? Back when I didn't feel like crap. When I was so high on the painkillers nothing else mattered. Now I'm not so sure. But it's been five days, Sam. Five days. If I can just handle two more, it'll get better, but it's - I'm not so strong anymore. I can't just turn this off."

Sam grimaced.  
"Stuck in the meatsuit?"

"Yeah. Literally. I'm just as human as you are. Maybe - maybe more so. Speaking of which, Sam. How's your detox going?"

Sam knew he'd fallen pale. His eyes couldn't decide where to stay upon the angel's face and he swallowed thickly, turning away entirely in just another moment. He hadn't expect Castiel to know, but of course he knew. Even if Dean had entirely forgotten, Castiel had not.  
  
"I don't feel much," he finally mumbled, "Weakened, of course. My mind's not clear. I keep... hearing things and seeing things. But it's not... it's not bad. It's been worse."

The way Castiel looked at Sam told the younger everything he didn't want to know - the question wasn't if the withdrawals would hit. The question was _when_.  
"I'm sorry," Castiel said quietly after a while.

Sam nodded. Then he chuckled and looked back at the angel.  
"Me too."  
After all, it would be hard for them too. He couldn't help feeling better about it now, however. He wasn't the only one who'd messed up. They all had, and they all suffered for it.


	26. Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _* con·ver·sa·tion,_ noun  
>  \- a (1) : oral exchange of sentiments, observations, opinions, or ideas (2) : an instance of such exchange : talk [a quiet conversation]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to A10 for the weekend, so count this Friday chapterless. Instead, have some more h/c.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The door creaked lightly, its sound barely audible to where Dean was sleeping, yet his ears still picked it up like they'd always done and as his brain registered and connected the sound, his eyes opened to the darkness around. The room looked deep blue with all other colours eliminated by the night's pale light.

Feeling conflicted, the man pulled himself quietly up from the bed and turned to look around the cabin. A flickering flame spoke of a candle. It illuminated a familiar face.

Dean stood up and stretched. He wasn't sure how to welcome Castiel, or if he should. The angel hovered by the table, slowly placing the candle down. His eyes were on Dean and he attempted a smile that came across as uncertain as Dean was.  
The younger walked cautiosly closer until he was by the table as well, and Castiel's expression seemed to relax a little, tension in his shoulders relieving as well. He tilted his head a little at Dean and briefly aimed his eyes at the wrapped up hand.  
"How's the pain?"

Dean sighed. He heaved his body up on the table and leaned to his good hand as he brought up the burned hand and examined it.  
  
"I don't know," he replied hesitantly, "if it's worse or if it's better. It's not acute, but it's wholesome, if you get what I mean. I feel it all the way up to my toes."  
With a sigh he looked back up at Castiel and watched him sit down on the other end of the table. They were both too good for chairs.

"I can't help but feel responsible. If you'd allow me to return the favour you paid me earlier, I'm offering to help you with taking care of the burn," the angel said with a submissive look on his features.  
Dean grimaced.  
"For the shit you pulled earlier, or just because?"

Castiel shrugged.  
"I'd imagine it's both. I truly want to, but I also feel I owe it to you."

Dean huffed. The feel of his breath burning in his nose made him pay attention to the fact he felt feverish and sickly. He nodded delayedly.  
"Be my guest."

A smile passed Castiel's face. He pulled up again and started setting up the necessities: most of what he'd need was still left on the table from before, but the water would need to be boiled again and the fire had gone out while Dean had slept. The younger watched the angel move and then how he built the fire and started it with matches like anyone else would have done, and it made Dean wonder if he'd needed matches like that even as a full angel - somehow, he doubted it. Fire was more associated with demons, but it seemed stupid to assume an angel couldn't simply conjure it up when needed. For some reason, he didn't want to ask. It felt impolite and crude, like asking a cripple if he'd been a fast runner.

Castiel decided to stay by the fire even after he'd set up the pot above it. He sat on the floor in front of the fireplace and stared into the flames, the half emptied water container next to him.  
Watching him there made Dean realise he was happy he hadn't chosen a cabin with a stove in it. It had often been a pain in his ass to prepare his meals over fire, but right now he felt like this made it all worthwhile. He slipped off the table and sat down next to the angel. The fire's warmth was relaxing and comfortable on every part of his body that wasn't covered by a thick layer of bandages, especially because he still wasn't wearing anything but his green cloth pants. Even if the cabin was warm, it wasn't warm enough for his body that was fresh out of the comfort of his bed.

At first, he barely paid attention to Castiel as the older took his bandaged hand and laid it on top of his own thigh, but in a moment, the silence grew thicker with his thoughts and Dean started noticing it, then growing uncomfortable in the absence of spoken words.  
He looked at the angel, and it took a while for the angel to look back. When he did, there was a certain sorrow in his eyes. Dean didn't know if he was sorry or if he was simply overcome with some unspoken sentiment, or if either of these translations were right. He swallowed and looked back at the fire.  
Castiel's palm landed over his arm and then they were both watching the crackling flames again.

"Cas?" the younger finally called, his voice breaking from mere lack of willpower to hold it together.

The angel looked at him, the expression on his face both mildly curious and exhausted.  
"How are you doing? Like, really."

The words tasted funny in Dean's mouth, but the smile that they brought on Castiel's lips was well worth the effort, no matter how awkward it had felt to get the question out.  
The older seemed to dwell on the question for a moment, his expression never any less happy; surprise smoothened out of it slowly as Dean watched. To his own surprise he soon noticed a small smile on his own face as well, one that had been prompted by the sincerity of the older's. Castiel eyed him casually and let out a small thoughtful sound.  
"Does 'really' mean the same as 'honestly', 'detailedly' or are you actually saying 'lie to me'?" he countered the question with another.

Dean rolled his eyes.  
"Something between the first two. Just roll with it, Cas."

Castiel licked his lips and turned his gaze back towards the fire. He breathed in and out as Dean kept watching him. He seemed to have lost a lot of weight over the past week, and he hadn't had much to spare to begin with, especially after the amphetamines had taken care of ensuring he stayed underweight even during the times they did have food to go around.  
Dean avoided the urgent need to touch him by ripping at the tapes holding the bandages together. He lowered his gaze as well, but never stopped concentrating on the other next to him. In truth, Castiel was everything he knew at the moment - him and the fire's glowing warmth, and the burning coolness underneath the dirtied cotton wraps.

"I feel a lot better than earlier," the older said after thinking about it for a moment, "I spoke with Sam while you were sleeping. We've formed our very own private support group for addicts unanonymous and it's working well."

Dean swallowed. He raised his eyes to examine Castiel's expression. He had forgotten about the demon blood entirely, and the way Castiel looked at him now, he knew the older had expected as much.  
"He's - he's not clean, is he?" he managed to speak out.

Castiel shook his head minimalistically. He reached a hand out to grab Dean's healthy one, and Dean held it, relieved that the other had made the first move so that he hadn't had to. Having that physical contact made him feel safer and stronger, yet seeking out that contact felt weak to him, something he couldn't push himself to do.  
With great difficulty, he pushed Sam out of his mind. There was absolutely nothing he could do to help the man now. Instead, he had another important thing right there next to him - Castiel.  
He felt like he was tiptoeing around the male. He knew exactly how much he'd hurt him, how long he'd ignored him and how big an asshole he'd been to him all around. Now he felt like a wounded puppy near the older. His hatred had died down the closer they'd got, and it hadn't happened without finally letting the feelings out too. The levees had broken and the raw, unresolved emotions he'd held back had poured out, and what had first been a river was now a stream fit for a steep riverbed. It had left him vulnerable... and all too eager to please.

The water had started to boil, its sound a natural addition to the crackling of the fire and the low sounds of the night seeping through the walls from outside. Dean's ears turned to seek out the sound of the wind bells, too, but of course he couldn't hear them. His cabin had never had an accessory as pointless as that. Now he missed the sound, missed the angel's cabin and missed the scents of incenses and oils and the teas the older drank.  
As Castiel rose up, wrapped his hands into a towel and picked up the pot, Dean's hand slipped onto his arm and down from it. He pulled it back onto his lap and sighed quietly.  
"So... feeling cheered up aside, Cas, how's your body doing?"

The angel laid the pot onto the floor in front of the fireplace and reached for the towel Dean had used earlier to wet the bandages on his hand. He dipped it into the boiling hot water and left it hanging so that it would cool down. Then he looked at Dean again.  
"Over the worst for today," he replied cautiously.

Dean's stare pushed him on.  
"I had a difficult day. I thought being alone was what I wanted but it all only got better when I spoke with Sam. What do you want to know?"

Thinking of an answer, Dean laid his injured hand out for Castiel to take in his. He watched the older lay the wet towel on top of it. The pain the pressure brought didn't help him think, but somehow, he relaxed into the touch. When had he last been cared for? Back when he and Sam had travelled together perhaps.  
"Everything," he decided after a moment, his eyes scanning Castiel's as he spoke, "I want to hear it all."

Castiel stopped for a moment to just stare at him, half astonished, half amused.  
"You want to hear me whine?" he confirmed, laying the towel over the pot's edge and bringing his fingers over to undo as much of the bandages as he could.

"Keep me busy," Dean grimaced, tilting his head towards their hands and his wound, "That hurts like a bitch."

When Castiel picked up the towel again, it was dripping wet for most part. He held it over the pot, waiting for the excess water to trickle down.  
"My pain for your pain?"

He moved the still dripping towel over to Dean's hand and gently wrapped it around the remaining bandages. The water felt like salt as it passed the protective layers and began to release the flesh from the cloth. Dean clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, swallowed, concentrated on breathing. The pain only grew worse - the burning, the roughness of everything that wasn't his flesh was multiplying by the moment.  
  
"My guts ache. I don't know if it's hunger or if they just ache. I'm tired."

The angel wrapped his fingers lightly around the wet towel and pressed ever so slightly before undoing it from around the younger's hand and returning to pick apart the sticky cotton. His forehead creased as he concentrated. Dean's sight blurred when the pain hit again.  
"I'm thirsty too. I have phantom pains everywhere. I'm pissed off all the time and too anxious to meditate. I can't relax."

The way he pulled off the rest of the stained bandages barely hurt Dean. They slid off and after they were gone, if it hadn't been for the dusty, warm, dry air, the feeling in his hand could have been pleasurable. He watched Castiel wash his hands throughoutly and dry them to the part of the towel he'd held onto that wasn't wet.  
"Can you reach the cream?" the other asked him.  
Dean leaned back and reached for the table. His fingertips stroked the side of the cream container and little by little he pushed it over the edge, grabbing it as it tilted towards the fall. He handed it to Castiel with a tiny nod.

"So, how about you, Dean?"

They were using an awful lot of names tonight. Dean threw his head back as if to shake off hair from his face, nevermind the fact his hair was much too short to bother him in that manner. He huffed.  
"Sick," he simply said, hoping he wasn't expected to elaborate like he'd pushed Castiel to do.

"Fever?"

He hissed as the older's palm landed over his hand with the cold of the cream.  
"Wouldn't be surprised."  
The words ended with a shiver and a gasp for air.  
"Cas, _fuck off._ That hurts like hell. Seriously."

Castiel simply smiled, never taking his eyes off of the hand he was now covering entirely with the cream.

"Jesus Christ. _Get out._ Fuck."

Dean noted the raised brow as Castiel reached to pour out more cream to coat him with. Then he returned to spreading it layer on top of layer until no damaged skin was visible. By the time he would have asked, Dean had already fished out what he needed to wrap the hand into fresh bandages, and no words were exchanged until it was done.  
  
"Hold onto that," Castiel muttered and pressed Dean's fingers onto the loose end of the roll just around his wrist.  
  
Dean held it still until the angel had taped around it twice. When there was nothing left to do, they found themselves staring at one another right in the eye, the fire's red glow dancing on their features and its quiet cracking the only sound in the background. Even the night had faded like the outside world had ceased to exist. Dean's ears were still ringing from the subsiding pain. It would reduce to the throbbing ache it had been in fifteen minutes.

He instinctively closed his eyes when Castiel leaned closer, but his body hadn't expected the kiss. He wasn't used to that sort of affection. The dry, warm lips pressed between his brows and left him with a tingly feeling about the spot they'd caressed. The older's face was void of any visible emotion, but he seemed to be content, and as he pulled himself up and started cleaning, Dean felt like his aura had changed quite a bit from the moment he'd appeared in the cabin. He, too, stood up, but there wasn't much he could do with his wreck of a hand, so in the end he simply stood there and watched while Castiel went about clearing the table and the floor they'd occupied a moment before, burning the trash and leaving the used towel on the table. Finally he seemed satisfied with what he saw and turned to Dean again. He clicked his tongue and winked.  
"My cabin's always open for you, if you feel like it."

Dean grimaced at him.  
"Didn't I already tell you to hit the road?" he huffed.  
At the same time, he took a step forwards and laid his good hand on the male's shoulder, looking him in the eye. He hesitated, gathering words he didn't know if he was ready to spell out. In the end, he never found the right ones and with a disappointed smile shook his head instead.  
"So many things I can't get out of my mouth, Cas."

The older echoed his chuckle, turning toward the door.  
"You have a habit of throwing them up before you choke. I wouldn't worry too much if I were you," he noted and Dean let out a sigh.

"Wait for me," the taller grunted, "I'm coming with you. Just let me grab some fresh clothes and - and other things."

Castiel leaned to the wall next to the door and watched him move around with a smile on his face. Dean threw everything he needed into a heap on the bottom of a bag and heaved it up on his shoulder. He still wasn't wearing a shirt - if luck would be on his side, they'd head right back to bed to sleep and he wouldn't ever need one before the morning.

"The cabin better have some fresh air or I'll choke on cat hair instead," Dean mumbled as they stepped out the door a few minutes later to the surprisingly warm night lurking outside the safety of the walls.  
He closed the door, his eyes catching a final glimpse of the now dark fireplace on the other side of the room before it was hidden from his view.

Castiel let out a quiet laughter.  
"I never knew you were allergic."

"Yeah, well. You do now."


	27. The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I had loads of fun at A10 but ended up missing Tuesday's post date as well due to unfortunate circumstances summable in one word: _chaos_. I return, however, with some pain on this fine Friday. Enjoy!

  
_**  
**_~*~ ~*~ ~*~

_**Two years ago** _

It started as an ache, like soreness after an exhausting battle. Castiel followed Dean through the forest towards the lookout point, but with each step, the feel gained more of his concentration and less of his attention could turn to the matters the human had trusted him with. He hid the ache, and as it grew over the span of days that followed, he decisively ignored it - he wouldn't let it interfere with his tasks, he'd made his mind about that. It wasn't anything he couldn't take, no matter how worrysome it was. They had an apocalypse on them, and he was a soldier. He'd live. Dean didn't need to know; no one did.

Then came the day it turned worse. The soreness, the dull pain, had grown into flashing agony that rose from within, far deeper than from his vessel, rather from the very core of his true self. He tuned back to the frequency of his own kind, but only silence greeted him. At first he thought he'd disconnected for too long - he hoped both his ability to hear the other angels and the rest of his powers would return, but days grew longer and turned into weeks without a ray of light ever piercing through the looming darkness.  
Quite the contrary, in fact. The darkness grew more oppressing, wrapping around him like a suffocating blanket that slowly turned into the binding of a deadly snake. It started constricting his body until he was visibly breathless and in pain. He couldn't hide it anymore. His weakness was visible and Dean grew concerned over him.  
The human asked and he told him there was nothing he could do about it, that he should concentrate on other matters.

That Dean was still much like the Dean that had been before he'd parted with Sam. Castiel had barely realised the difference before all of that Dean had gone and he'd turned to memories, and for a while, he was certain those memories were flawed, that time and all the struggles between had turned them better than the reality had been, but such things hardly happened to beings like him. The man had fallen deep since that day. Ever since news of Sam's decision had arrived, he'd been a more of a wreck with each passing day. Yet never had Castiel believed he'd fall so low as he would in just few short months more.

So yes, the Dean then still cared. Of course he couldn't simply turn a blind eye to Castiel's suffering. He called them back, the whole group, and turned to seeking a permanent base for security. They gathered people from evacuation zones, people who fought and who didn't want to fall back into the prisons the government called safety. With their help, they made their way to Camp Chitaqua.  
At the point they reached it, Castiel had caught the essence of what was happening to him. He'd heard the pleas, the last messages aimed for him, and they all called him back home. He knew what he could expect in Heaven, and punishment was the least of his worries. Should he choose to do as his kind had, he might live, even after his disobedience he held certain value and allies up there, but he would not come out of it unscathed.  
A new kind of a conflict had been born inside him: a conflict all about hoping to find his own answers, of escaping the endless circle of misplaced trust, well-kept secrets, torture and punishment over disobedience even when the orders were against what he felt was true and righteous.

Yet that wasn't all there was to the choice.  
If that had been, he would have eventually chosen heaven over hell on earth. It was his heart that made the final choice, the heart he'd discovered against his wishes and all willpower. It seemed to have been awakened by the loss of faith he'd suffered at the betrayal of those he'd trusted, as well as what he could not call anything but strengthening friendship between him and the humans he'd chosen to trust instead.  
In his darkest moments, the stubborn man he'd raised from the pit shone a light for him - at times, that light did little else than make him wish he could burn the human into dust, but at others, it gave him courage.  
There was more to it than he at the time could recognise, feelings he didn't know how to name or translate, things that were entirely alien to angels. Later, he would come to know them as love and longing, the need to stay with those he cared for the most, but that was much after he'd made his choice based on both the feelings he did understand and those he feared.

The connection between him and Heaven withered and died. The loss made him physically ill as his vessel turned into his body and his true form melted into what scarcely resembled a human soul. It was a much too limited thing to contain what he truly was and with those limits, a part of him died. It was forced to die, everything that his body wasn't able to handle he had to shed, and what parts those were, he had no control over. He was in constant, unbearable pain, the sort he imagined to be worse than what Anael had went through when she'd chosen to fall. For one, it took much longer for him - he did not have a short, merciful rebirth. Then, as he understood it, his grace did not separate from him, it died; it wasn't only _lost_ , it was gone for good. The parts that were carved from him like splinters from a tree that still stood on its roots he would never experience as parts of himself again. With every passing moment he was less of an angel, but what he was becoming was not human enough to replace the losses he suffered.

So he fell.  
Every day since he reminded himself of the reasons he'd made that choice.

When he was attacked on a mission and broke his leg, he reminded himself of why he was there.  
When he laid in bed and refused to tap into the already waning stocks of painkillers, he found comfort in his reasons to stay.  
When Dean turned into a stranger, he reminded himself of who the younger had once been, and hoped he would be that man again one day.  
When Dean turned to hate him, he reminded himself of who _he_ was.

But when he realised he was in love, he knew he'd lost - all his good reasons, all his faith, all his dedication and loyalty and will to fight for the future had died like his grace had, and now he'd finally come to the point where he himself was a stranger as well.

With the bitter taste of amphetamine pills on his tongue he prayed for a bullet to end it all. And then - then came the bullet that did, in a manner of speaking, end it all. The God that had abandoned them sure did have a sense of humour much like that of his children: it was cruel, and the catch in every joke was merely to cause unbearable suffering on those who had made the wrong choices.  
From Lucifer to Sam to Dean to Castiel and on to all others God had claimed to love, all who were unlucky enough to be his children, they all suffered for sins they'd committed while trusting their hearts were true, that they were doing the right thing.

 

*

 

**August 2014**

Dean woke up to a knock against a nearby wall. He opened his eyes and with sight came consciousness about his weakened state - he felt the air trapped under the blanket with him hot like burning iron, yet his body was freezing and his mind clouded and full of discomfort. Every move he made hurt, and even his lips were like someone had ran sandpaper over them a couple times. He tasted nothing and his nostrils burned as the air he breathed out passed through them.  
He let out a pained gasp when he did rise up. His horizon tilted threateningly as his brain registered Chuck, not Castiel, standing by the doorway.

"Um," he mumbled.

Chuck flashed a smile at him and raised a hand.

"Nope, sunshine. Don't even try. Castiel's out, before you ask. I brought you something to eat, you're in a pretty bad shape."  
He brought a bowl of soup over to Dean, who held it with a trembling hand until the bottom of the bowl hit the bed and he could safely lay it down there. It wasn't the same soup as they'd eaten the past week, it looked thicker and overall more filling than the other.

"I have news for you, once you're awake," Chuck continued.

Dean eyed him stupidly over the spoonful of soup he was trying to fit in his mouth. High fever was a bad thing, but that was about as much as his brains were willing to analyze about his condition. His hand was throbbing, but when he turned his hazy eyes to it, he noted the bandages had already been changed.  
As he stared, swallowing the soup that as it passed through his system felt like a bucketful of warmth spreading into his veins, Chuck placed a large pill on the bed. It was already cut in three bits. Dean picked one up and examined it between his fingertips.

"For the fever," the prophet sighed impatiently.

Dean figured he didn't have a choice. A part of him wanted to argue about the usefulness of all this - whether he was worth more than the precious pill he was going to consume - but Chuck was much better aware of how and when and with whom to use the wares, so perhaps this one time he'd accept the gift at face value and live to see another day.  
He shoveled more soup into his mouth and slowly, no pills were left and the bottom of the bowl could be seen through the greenish brown liquid that tasted like carrots and strange served with a handful of salt.

That they still had. Salt. Lots of it. Sort of followed from having a bunch of hunters gathering in the same spot. Besides, other people hadn't been thinking clear, they'd left a lot of salt untouched in the stores even after most other vitalities were consumed. However, salt _was_ crucial: you needed it for everything once electricity was down. For example like ice, salt kept things edible. That was a giant bonus on top of it serving as proofing against demons and the restless spirits of everyone you'd eventually have to leave behind.  
  
"So?" Dean mumbled.  
He leaned back on the bed and rubbed at his neck insecurely. He still felt like hell, but maybe a little less. Waking up and eating was definitely doing something about it.

Chuck cleared his throat dramatically and drew in a lot of air before beginning.  
"Jack has fresh information on Pestilence - and potential new blood coming in."

Dean licked his lips and brought in more soup as he tried to let the news sink in. His heart was fluttering. As he swallowed, his body seemed to connect the words into the long since abandoned section for good news, and he found himself grinning.  
"I guess I'll need to talk to Jack once I can trust myself to walk, then?"

Chuck rolled his eyes and hopped on the bed, apparently fed up on standing around like he was about to leave at any moment.  
"He's out fishing. I told him you'd want the news right away but he insisted on dropping by 'later', so 'later' is what you'll have, as you're not walking anywhere today."

Dean huffed stubbornly, but he'd already agreed. He wasn't in shape to go trekking, even if it was just to the lake.  
"His later had best be soon," he did grunt after a moment.  
Then he eyed Chuck again with a more curious expression and, after another mouthful of soup and an acknowledgement of how he really was starting to feel better already, asked about the potential newcomers.

"A family, actually," the prophet replied hesitantly, "A couple in their thirties and their daughters, 15 and 13. All capable, wouldn't have survived otherwise, of course. But we're not used to kids around here. Adam will decide on it."

Dean closed his mouth. He hadn't even realised he'd opened it in the first place. Those were cold facts, however. This wasn't his decision, not anymore. In some way, he was fine with that. In every other way he was not, and it pissed him off.  
Chuck seemed to grow aware of it, as he turned more into his old anxious self again.  
"Of course, if you have an opinion -"

"I don't," Dean replied simply, his voice stern.

"Okay, that's - that's - that's very..."  
Chuck licked his lips nervously and scraped at the back of his neck. Dean watched him, and his normalcy made him feel less irritated.

"Hey Chuck," he began after a while, gaining the other's undivided attention immediately, "Where's Sam?"

"Outside, working on the car," Chuck replied, "Do you need him?"

Dean shook his head and looked past Chuck at the sunshine barging in through the open door. He could hear the wooden beads, the quiet sounds they made as the collided with one another in the gentle breeze travelling indoors.  
"No. I don't."

Chuck nodded. He bit his lip and after a moment of silence, stood up.  
"I'll be leaving then," he said, nervous again, "Try to get some rest."

Dean nodded absently. The spoon somehow found its way up to his lips and he sipped off the remaining soup. The bowl was now empty, and he laid it on the bedside table, watching Chuck leave.  
He was alone in just another second. The rattling of the beads was for a while louder, agitated, but they soon settled and returned to the quiet harmony between them and the wind bells. The weather was warm but Dean still felt cold - he slipped lower in the bed and pulled the blanket up, closing his eyes.  
He breathed in and out and in again, and from the other side of the bed, the kitten emerged and settled by his side. It was warm, even through the blanket, and its weight felt safe next to him.

"Hey, Lucifer," he muttered, reaching a hand out from under the covers.  
His fingers found the cat's ear and petted it clumsily.


	28. Fire and Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then I'm going to miss two updates again, remind me to do one on Thursday. Rome calls.

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The next time Dean woke up, it was to a hand caressing his hair. He opened his eyes and took notice of two things; firstly that his eyes were all too sensitive to light and secondly that Castiel was sitting next to him on the bed. He vaguely motioned towards the window with his aching, swollen and sickly hot hand.  
The angel reached to pull the curtain over so that Dean was left in shade. From his position, it wasn't possible for Castiel to get it much further than that, but it was just enough to achieve what Dean had craved for. The younger opened his eyes again and they weren't hurting quite so much this time around.  
He looked at Castiel examiningly, mind blank. The other looked back at him with a smile.

"You drooled all over my pillow," the angel finally spoke.

Dean grunted disapprovingly. After a slow-paced but still brief measure of his willpower he closed his eyes once again, feeling too weary to function. He breathed in and out and wondered if the fever really would turn out to be fatal. That would be too ironic - it'd be a very anticlimatic, if not a fully ordinary and even obvious way to die, perhaps excluding the strange manner in which he'd acquired his injury.  
From the half-waking state of his he could feel the worry and frustration that radiated from the angel beside him. He found himself smiling, as he thought he knew exactly what bothered the other so.  
"Don't fret it, Cas," he mumbled, "It's no use to dwell on ifs and buts."

The older sighed. Dean heard him adjusting a bowl, or more likely a kettle, full of water and felt it land next to him on the bed. Castiel took his hand and began the routine care of the wound while Dean drifted in and out of consciousness.  
"Where's Sam?" he heard himself asking, not sure how much time had passed since he'd last spoken.  
He couldn't measure the minutes at all and his clouded mind was nearly certain he'd slept a little since the moment Castiel had started cleaning his burn.

Castiel's palm appeared on his forehead, brushed through the light film of cold sweat and disappeared again.  
"Sam's out," he replied simply.  
Dean noticed he was now wrapping his hand in a new bandage, and again despite the irritation, his hand felt a little better after being cleaned and cared for.  
"Out?" Dean repeated, his voice mildly annoyed as if the tone was barely pushing through a layer of indifference.

"Yes," Castiel confirmed indifferently, "Either he's still working on the car or then he went to the lake. He sat here for two hours earlier but you didn't wake up, and he didn't want to disturb you."

With great effort Dean managed to peer at the older, barely opening one eye to do so. Castiel looked back at him calmly. He was holding Dean's healthy hand in his now and again, Dean had no idea when he'd finished with the other.  
The fever made the younger shiver, but then the shiver never ended and it turned into trembling. Castiel stood up and walked away - Dean heard the door closing before the footsteps heralded the male's return. The older settled on the bed and laid down next to Dean, pulled up the blanket he was wrapped in and joined him under there. The only complaint Dean aimed at him was a faint grimace when he brought an arm around the younger's burning hot waist. The tip of his nose brushed onto Dean's cheek and his breathing felt like fire on the sick man's skin.

"I keep thinking of ridiculous things," Dean spoke silently at the ceiling.  
The male lying against him breathed out and adjusted his position. His movements were like sandpaper whenever he rubbed against Dean, but the younger didn't really mind it. He didn't feel alone like this, and now that the feeling was gone, he realised he had felt afraid before as well. Feelings like that came and went away with fever, they were irrational and unreal emotions that his brain conjured up as a reaction to the perceived threat his body was fighting off.  
"I dreamed of a shore just now. I was awake but I saw it like in a dream."

"How is that ridiculous?"  
  
"It was all wrong somehow."

Bushes rattled against the wall just behind them. Dean could hear them sharper than usual, while most other sounds were muffled.  
An absent thought crossed Dean's mind. It resembled an old horse walking across the desert sands, parched and weakened, slowly disappearing into the horizon. He fell asleep before he could take a hold of it and lead it out of his mouth.

 

*

Sam settled on the dock. He'd left his shoes and socks next to him and his jeans were rolled all the way up above his knees where they finally became too tight to pull further anymore. The water could only reach halfway up his calf, but sometimes the waves climbed on higher up and he wasn't taking any chances. The lake water was warmed by the sunlight that still played upon the waves, if only for a couple hours more before setting past the treetops in the horizon, and even though the hunter had told himself he'd only sit there for a while and then turn to doing something more useful, he felt an almost irresistible urge to ditch his clothing and jump right in there. He couldn't remember when he'd last swam, and he couldn't really imagine a better opportunity to correct that wrong arising anytime soon if he'd skip this one.

With a small thud he landed on his back upon the soft worn planks underneath him. The warm wind caressed his skin and slithered into his ears and pushed aside his hair. The deep blue of the sky above was without a cloud, but hints of sunset's shades were already joining into it. The air smelled of natural water and the forest around. The damp smell of the shoreline occasionally wafted from underneath the dock itself as the waves moved the air trapped between the water and the wood. The surface beneath the man's back was warmed by the sun too, and the feel of it relaxed his aching back muscles. He made up his mind: he'd lie there for a while and then take a short swim to relax properly - it'd bring welcome variety to the way he'd used his arms and back for the past days. He was almost finished with the storage space under the backseat of the Impala, and next he'd work on the front seat. His hands were sore and his arms were even more so, and the tension in his shoulders was growing to proportions he'd tried to avoid by taking breaks and stretching every chance he got. It wasn't enough, and the very idea of swimming was rushing blood up the constricted veins alongside the stiff muscles of his neck. It sent a shiver down his spine and he sighed wearily.

This all worked well to take his mind off of the horrors it had dwelled on almost without a pause ever since he'd found himself at the figurative doorsteps of Camp Chitaqua. He was constantly too tired to actually feel pity for himself or anyone else for that matter, and the night before he'd slept like a baby in the cabin he'd adopted on a whim when he'd realised he could hardly go to Dean's or Castiel's either. Lotus had been an option... but he didn't want to seem pushy or overly keen of her company. She had been more than just kind to him, and he didn't want to pay it back by being a creep.

Sam let out a small sigh and scratched at a suddenly itching spot on his side. Some birds flew out of the trees reaching above the water and he followed their flight for a while with his eyes until they were so small in the distance he lost interest in them. He got back up and and ditched his shirt carelessly upon the dock, humming a tune he couldn't remember the name of. His fingers pushed apart the buckle from his belt and left it hanging loose as he moved onto unbuttoning and then pushing down the jeans from around his hips. The pants fell around his feet and he stepped out of them, hesitating for a brief moment before tugging down his boxers as well, a hint of a grimace on his face. There was nobody there to mind his nudity, and there was absolutely no reason whatsoever to even give the whole thing a second thought. In the brave new world, he had no reason to wet his clothes for the sake of modesty. That thought brought along a longing he couldn't quite shake before the lake's water washed it off of him like the dust and stains of the day as he leaned his body into its embrace. He hung onto the dock for a while, trying about the bottom with his feet only to find out that there was no bottom to be found. Cautiosly he let go of the wood and took a dive to find it; it was deep enough there to jump in from the dock's end he realised before swimming back to the surface. He pushed his hair away from his face and drew in air, feet kicking through the thick and pleasurably cool-feeling water, blowing drops and streams off from his lips and from around his nostrils. His hands fell back into the water and he started swimming further away.  
The water glimmered around him, reflecting a million suns from each ripple his presence created. Gliding further and further relieved the swollen, thick feeling of the man's muscles and the soft pressure of the water felt like a welcome massage. He drew a long breath again and went underwater for a while, opening his eyes to the green, rough-feeling and unclear tint of the world below the surface. The sun's rays broke apart at contact with the water and in each one of the beams that resulted and reached deeper, Sam saw the blurred images of small particles floating around.

He tried if he could still summersault underwater before swimming back to the surface for air again. Almost: he did manage it, but his nostrils filled with water and burned like hell afterwards.

As he swam in circles going further and further towards the center of the lake, his thoughts crawled back to the camp across the forest he saw around him. After twenty minutes he'd turned on his back and floated about like a flesh-coloured log, fingers grasping aimlessly in the water as his legs kicked him on towards nothing in particular, and he caught himself worrying about his brother, whose condition had worsened during the day. He'd stayed by Dean's side for a while before deciding he wasn't helping anyone by doing that, and as soon as he'd finished his meal that he'd scraped together on a brief visit to the main cabin he'd headed out again. Midway back to the car he'd changed his mind and considered fishing instead, but he hadn't found the equipment, yet still his feet had carried him to the lake.  
With a thoughtful look on his face he tried to justify his decision to himself: he'd worked his ass off for more than a day now. He did deserve some time to recover. He rolled around and started swimming again to escape these thoughts. He didn't need to feel guilty for this. He had indeed done his part and more.

When he turned to return to the dock, his eyes picked up the shape of another human, sitting at the head of the dock next to his pile of clothes. At first, his heart skipped a beat and adrenaline pumped into his veins as his mind instinctively turned to forming a plan on how to escape the situation - but at the same time as all this happened, his reason caught up and he realised it was Lotus who sat there, and she didn't look all that threatening. In fact, she looked amused and had a teasing tone to her expression. Sam had an idea why as he started swimming closer.

"My my," Lotus snickered as he approached, "Such a nice body you have."

A part of Sam wanted to respond with a point on how Lucifer had apparently thought the exact same thing, but he kept his mouth shut and shrugged the compliment off with a faint smile. He laid his palms on the post at the opposite side of the dock than the woman was currently occupying. He couldn't help the smirk that grew from the memory of the smile he'd attempted when he noted that all his worries about appearing improper were clearly useless, as the woman was currently eyeing her in the exact way Dean always eyed the girls he wanted to bed. It made him feel a little awkward as open attention like that always did, but on the other hand, some corner of his mind was definitely more flattered than any part of him even attempted being offended.

"The water's warm," he heard himself saying, "Join in?"

 

*

 Dean felt someone holding his hand and heard like through water his own name being called. He wrestled away first the blanket of denial that threatened to push away his consciousness again, and then the weight that held his eyelids closed. At first when he did manage to open his eyes a little, he feared he'd gone blind, but not because it was as dark as before - if it had been, he would have just assumed he hadn't managed to open them in the first place and would have simply tried harder. No, the reason was the exact opposite: what he saw was pure blinding white light that somehow did not hurt his eyes like it should have, it was like it came from another dimension altogether and therefore could not hurt him, or perhaps it was even healing him, he couldn't decide. His heart forgot to pump and his blood froze in his veins and then, with a painful crash, it all started again and he felt the flashing pain in his chest grow into agony that he signaled with a weak gasp for air. He felt the blood that had already turned to stone inside him push forwards through his unwilling veins as his eyes took in the sight he saw in front of him; light more pure than that of the sun, taking the shape of a fiery pylon with a veil that filled the whole room. It had a thousand faces upon its surface, faces of suffering, faces of calm, faces of all emotions he'd ever known and more, faces that were not human and faces that were clearly animal, some that were monstrous and some that were beautiful like nothing he'd ever witnessed. Its shape was like electrified water, but it still seemed to be of living fire, a tempestuous blaze that did not warm nor burn, it existed like the essence of everything that was, radiating with life and energy, constantly changing shape and staying the same still.

"Dean. Dean, look at me," the voice called for him again.  
Dean blinked and turned his heavy-feeling head towards the voice. The light diminished, but as it went, he could just make out the shape of two oval-shaped, dimmer reminiscents of it behind the male who was speaking to him. His lips parted silently.  
 _Dude, you are tripping balls_ , he told himself as he watched the light (or shadow, it seemed to be both at once) fade away.  
He noticed he'd reached his hand out for the part that was closer to him and as his fingers touched it, he felt nothing, but the light sparked around his fingers and seemed to ripple before it had all disappeared right in front of his eyes. Castiel looked at him with an expression of worry and puzzlement.  
  
"Are you awake?" the angel asked him.  
Dean uttered a sound uncertainly in response. His eyes turned to where the pylon of light had existed before, and couldn't help but laugh in his fever-worn rough voice at Chuck who stood where it had been. The prophet's fingers were absently touching at this messy hair and he looked like he'd rather been anywhere but there, apparently embarrassed and uncertain how to behave around Dean who was at his very weakest and, as it had become apparent to the man himself, delusional.

"I don't know," Dean managed to pronounce, turning back to Castiel, "I just imagined Chuck on fire and sort of saw your wings, Cas. I'm like... that much asleep and only a little on the side of not."

"Good enough," Castiel replied to him.  
Dean noticed him throwing back his shoulder ever so slightly as if adjusting the wing Dean had imagined touching. It was most likely the older simply readjusting to relieve tension, but with the association Dean was making, it looked like the strangest thing to do.  
"I need you to swallow another pill, and half-awake will do well for that."

The human felt him placing a halved pill onto his palm. Castiel helped him sit up and Chuck handed the other a glass of water that he then passed onto Dean, who made use of it and still managed to get the other half of the pill stuck in his thick and dry throat. He nearly gagged at the feel before another gulp of water finally nudged it on. The pressurising feel of it remained until he'd drank three more times, but when he'd done that, he couldn't help but grimace at the feel of his full bladder.  
"You know what?" he mumbled, barely managing to aim for the table on which he then much too heavily placed the glass he'd held, "I need to get out for a bit."

Castiel exchanged looks with Chuck, who sighed, bringing his arms behind his head and kicking at the floor.  
"I'll do what I can, Cas, but - really."

"I heard you the first time around. He'll die without them, Chuck."

Dean frowned.  
"Die without what?" he asked.  
His vision was trembling and he could feel his pulse in his legs that he noticed he could hardly move.  
Castiel looked at him and his expression was both serious and apologetic.  
"Antibiotics, Dean. You need a hospital."

"Well," Dean managed to reply before hitting his back to something that he, with a few seconds of delay, realised was the bed's head that he hadn't noticed he was headed for, "Seems like I'm going to die, then."

"No," the angel sighed and brought a finger under his chin, "You're going to suffer your part and you're going to pull through."

Dean shivered. His skin was covered with invisible burning coals and sometimes, the ceiling rained lava on him. He let out a deep breath and noticed he was holding Castiel's hand as his fingers pressed into the flesh a little bit too hard to be comfortable for either.  
"Either way," he finally said after a long silence during which Chuck had begun to move towards the door, apparently not quite convinced he had been dismissed, and clearly unwilling to do whatever it was Castiel had pressured him into trying, "I really, really need to take a piss, and I don't think I'll manage outside without help."  
The angel let out a quiet chuckle and Dean felt his arm pressing against the small of his back to pull him up from the bed. He was thankful for that as he brought his own arm stiffly and clumsily over the other's broad shoulders for support.


	29. Sandra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. Um. Awkward.  
> It's Casa Erotica all over again.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Sam had trouble differentiating the logical thought from all the rest that crowded his mind. With one hand he held the woman's wrist against the wood of the dock and with the other, he supported and held himself still at the spot, and his fingernails dragged bits of wet and softened dirt under them from the plank he held onto. Lotus had lodged her feet onto a rock just a couple inches behind and between the last two posts, and she grinned at his efforts at staying where he wanted, as his feet met nothing but depth wherever he moved them. There was a sudden deep right there, he could approximately tell now from just where it begun and also where he could find the bottom again - the deep seemed to be a round curve rather than an absolute that stretched on from all sides. The dock had been built in the middle of that curve, and not all that far from there his feet had found solid stone-covered bottom along the same approximate distance where he now struggled to stay above surface.

In a second, he surrendered and let go with a quiet laughter, pushed back and swam around the dock until he found a place from which he could drag himself up. He crawled to the end again and looked down at Lotus, who faced him from below with a smirk on her face.

"You're cute," the woman noted and splashed water on his face.  
He ducked out of sight until it seemed to be safe to return.  
"You're a pain," he sighed dramatically.

Lotus brought a hand up and he took it, helping her up from the water. She dripped all over the dock he'd already wet by rolling around upon it - and to be fair, he would still be dripping when Lotus was done, given how only one of them had long thick hair and it wasn't the soldierlike female whose head was covered by only an inch of light brown hair. It was a strange colour for her, given how her skin was of a darker shade that spoke of mixed heritage, but seemed to be her natural tone anyway. Her eyes were brown and had a depth to their shade. In the light of the setting sun, she had a wild look to her.  
"What are you thinking?" she asked him, and he realised he'd been caught staring.

Sam chuckled and turned away.  
"You look like you were raised by wolves," he replied lightly, eyes on the orange tint of the scenery.

"Really now."  
The tone of Lotus's voice was both surprised and somewhat mockingly curious, yet the words itself lacked the question she seemed to imply.  
Sam replied with a low hum, looking back at her again. He examined her for a moment, nodding finally as if in a confirmation of what he'd already decided.  
"Yeah," he spoke, "It's kind of hard to explain though. You have the look of someone who really knows how to handle herself. Been through a lot, seen things nobody should see, lived through situations where others have died. You know?"

Lotus raised her brows before turning to look at the lake. She thought for a brief moment.  
"That I've been through hell, is that what you mean?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

She looked back at him and smiled a crooked, unhappy, self-ironic smile.  
"Sounds appropriate," she said.  
"Had a rough life until now ever after things started going downhill. You might find this hard to believe but this here is the most comfortable I've been up to date. Not that I learned much out of it, anyway. Only that you either go with the group that abuses you the least and you live, or you're safe from that but you die."

Sam didn't know what to say to that. After all, he had no idea what the other had been through - and there wasn't much he could say to suffering like that in general. It was his turn to look at the lake and his eyes followed a pack of birds crossing the water in flight. They chirped loudly as they went. For a moment, he hesitated with the question that her words had prompted, but then he figured he would have to go there anyway, so when he had the chance to make it relevant, he'd take it.  
"How's this group?" he asked, poking the subject carefully.

Lotus shrugged her small, thin shoulders.

"The best," she said shortly after, but there was a but in the tone she spoke in, "I get some respect here, and certainly no beatings either. I used to live with what Rika called a 'pack'. She was in one too, before she came here. Packs are usually baseless groups of survivors who do what they must to survive and often enjoy it a bit too much. Generally, there are a few strong, deranged men and women that form the hit group - they kill whatever they see and take whatever they get from them, regardless of if they're infected or not. Then there's the leader, the strongest and most deranged one, usually a male, who doesn't ask questions and holds the pack together through the sheer fact that if you disobey, you suffer and you usually die, too. By the way, your brother's the pack leader here. I don't care if he's not the official leader anymore - he's the only one who fits the title and that's why we listen to him. He doesn't give a shit, Sam, he expects us to do what he wants and question no orders, no matter how fucked up they are."

Sam nodded slowly. What he heard both conflicted with everything he knew about Dean but also fit the man that wasn't the Dean he'd grown up with. Lotus seemed a little taken aback by the lack of more confrontational reaction from him, but when she truly got none from Sam, she relaxed.

"Then there's us - the general fodder of the pack, the ones they keep alive for reasons that benefit them. We're sent out to gather resources, but mostly, at least the women, we... serve other needs."

Sam noticed he was dragging skin off from his bottom lip as he listened, and he couldn't quite look at her now.

"And they treat us like cattle. Most of us don't stay, we jump groups every given chance but they're never any better than the one before, and if you get caught, well. As I said, you suffer and usually you die. It's the worst for us. When a soldier, as they call themselves, gets punished, he can fight back and they usually kill them quickly. But we who don't have that on our side? These people love torture, they're sadists through and through. Most the time they're picking fights and driving apart the weak ones until they try and escape just so that they can hunt them down and kill them slowly. That's the sort of a life I lived for the first fifteen months."

Lotus pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She'd torn the nail on her big toe recently, as the underside of half the nail was dark reddish brown. She wriggled that one toe and reached over the try about it.  
Sam watched the way she tugged at it and found himself laying his hand over her arm to stop her.  
"It'll get infected if you keep doing that," he said with a soft smile.

She rolled her eyes but did stop.  
"You must think really highly of me now," she sighed.  
The scenery reflected from her eyes, and from between the trees, a glimpse of the setting sun suddenly stroke Sam's eyes so that he had to cover it with his hand. A hint of a smile played upon the woman's lips - she just kept staring. Perhaps the light was hidden from where she sat.

"What's your real name?" Sam asked after a moment.  
He couldn't really think of what to comment to that - saying his opinion had hardly changed would be both pretentious and lying, even if he didn't think any less of her now. He simply lacked to words to show her what he really thought of her or how hearing about her past had changed that.

"Sandra."

Sam looked at her and was surprised when she initiated eye contact. Her expression was challenging and the way she looked at him was controlling, it bound him to the spot. He smiled awkwardly.  
"Sandra. Can I use it?"

"I wouldn't have told you if I didn't want you to, dumbass."

He laughed and brushed his fingers through his hair, surprised.  
"Good. Great. Okay, you said it's better here?"

Sandra shrugged.  
"Isn't it obvious? I have a place to call home, a nice comfortable place too and not some moldy hole either. I have friends and people I can call family, and people - well, not all of them people - who respect me. That's a lot more than I've ever had, Sam. The only thing that keeps me unsatisfied is the fear of losing this all. I don't want to let go when I finally found something to fight for again. It's been a long while."

Sam nodded.  
"That makes sense," he said, then fell silent for a much longer while than he'd intended.  
A blackbird perched onto the tree nearest to them and started singing. Its clear voice was so loud it was nearly distracting.  
The topic he had tried to approach was still too far to reach and right now, he didn't even want to go there.

"So," Sandra started when it became obvious Sam had lost himself in his thoughts, "You seem used to letting things go."

Sam glanced at her and huffed. He pulled up his plaid shirt and hung it on his shoulders, feeling chilly and still unwilling to actually dress up. Sandra raised a brow at him.  
"Are you cold?" she asked before he could answer.

Sam chuckled.  
"A little."  
He breathed out and watched the forest ahead again now that the sun had stopped shining right into his eyes whenever he attempted it.  
"Yeah, I'm used to letting things go. It's easier when you have to do it all the time, you... stop growing fond of things the way you're supposed. I guess it's like a string that you cut off each time it attaches to something, you can only do it so many times before you can't tie it around anything anymore. It hurts, yeah, but it's one of those things you don't have control over."

"Comforting," the woman muttered sarcastically.

Sam grimaced.  
"I guess not."

He watched the other get up. She seemed rather small to the man even from this point of view - her legs were long but thin, and in full height, she wouldn't reach far above his shoulders. She took a step towards her clothes but Sam grabbed her hand and she stopped hesitantly. She turned her eyes back to him with a questioning look.  
"I still want you, you know that?" the older said in a low, asking tone.

Her eyes widened slightly in disbelief, and Sam could see she was at loss for words. Finally she took the step back, turned towards him and climbed on his lap instead. Sam's hands slipped onto her waist and they kissed, and it felt natural and comforting.

"This is the worst time to ask," he breathed out when the kiss broke, his voice full of the apology he couldn't really express, "but I need to know -"

"Did I sleep with Dean? No."

"... ah? Oh. It's just... I mean, that's - that's good."

Sandra laughed.  
"I knew you were going to ask at one point or another. Answer's still no. I haven't slept with any man on this camp, so you're safe from jealous suitors. Unlike all of Dean's women, I mean, that's part the reason I never even considered - all of his lays were constantly at each other's throats. We had a hell of a time trying to keep the lady lines unified through all _that_."

Sam's lips parted. He didn't know what to say to that, but apparently his expression was full of the questions he didn't want to bring up out loud. Sandra prodded at his chest amusedly.  
"Go on, get it over with, Sam. I won't run off. You're too good-looking and nice for me to skip this. Be awkward for me, baby."

"Awkward?" Sam grimaced, "I'm afraid of being offensive. No, it's just that Dean said -"

"Dean's probably said a lot of things about me, based on what he thinks rather than knows, Sam. I think you're referring to Castiel, aren't you? When I said I slept with no man here."  
  
"Yeah, sort of, I - was under the impression -"

"Yeah, no wonder. Castiel never slept with any of us, really. He let everyone assume he did and everything, but he really just - I don't know what the hell it was he did but he never touched us, and we never touched him. It was all girl on girl and a lot, and I mean _a lot_ , of spiritual talk and expressing ourselves. Cindy called it sex therapy and Eleonora called it a sermon and I say it was a little of both plus unleashing your inner lesbian. All in all, we sort of taught him everything we knew about sex combined with what we learned from one another first, and he showed us how it all connected us, how being close worked in the spiritual sense. And we called them orgies because that's what they were in essence. Nobody ever asked, and he didn't seem to want to let anyone know that he wasn't... involved."

"Weird."  
  
"Yeah. I guess it is. But we really enjoyed ourselves. It felt like really intense spiritual healing, helped me overcome a lot of the things that were holding me back from, as he put it, releasing my energies. Thing is, I'm not really a lesbian at all, and after that I've been dying to connect with someone I'm actually interested in."  
Sam snorted, and he was about to say something - something unimportant that escaped his mind the moment he figured he couldn't, as Sandra pressed her lips onto his again and her hand slipped down his partially wet abdomen.


	30. It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter name looks like a sixth grader's notebook title WiTh ThE lEtTeRs LiKe ThIs but, hell, continuity.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The smell of the cabin seemed stronger and more piercing in Dean's nostrils. He was shaking with cold but far too weak to actually do anything about it - he heard someone moving in the other room but he couldn't even call out. Barely a whimper left him when he tried, yet somehow, it seemed to gain that someone's attention. He fought to open his eyes and met the candlelit ceiling of the cabin before soon after, Castiel's shape entered his field of vision. The older sat on the bed again and brought a hand on his chest for a moment before changing his mind and grabbing his hand instead. He brought their hands back over on Dean's chest and eyed him examiningly.  
"It gets better," the angel said after a moment had passed.  
They shared an eye contact and Dean wanted to believe him, but right there and then, he didn't quite manage to. A faint smile crossed his lips.

"I'll make you some tea."

No questions asked, no reply required. Castiel helped Dean up into a sitting position, and when the younger leaned back to settle against the hard wood behind him, he noticed he was instead drowning into something. It was one of the large pillows from the main room to make him feel more comfortable. He raised his hand weakly to tap about his forehead. Castiel pulled the hand back down and grimaced.  
"It's bad enough, Dean," he told him in a tone that messaged that he did not need to make it worse by acknowledging it, "Can you breathe?"

Dean nodded a little.  
"Yeah," he managed to hoarsely reply.  
He wanted to say more but his throat wasn't obeying. His tongue felt thick and sticky in his mouth, too large to belong to him at all.

"That's good. So keep breathing."

Dean didn't have a reply to that. It was for the best, either way - he relaxed and closed his eyes and listened, as if through water, to Castiel's footsteps leaving the room again. The fever was like an ache everywhere in his body, but for the first time since gaining the injury, his hand didn't feel all that swollen. In fact, it wasn't throbbing like usual. It was stiff and painful and the cream underneath the bandages made it feel like it was covered in slime - as it probably was - but it wasn't throbbing and the swelling had indeed lessened. His muscles hurt more than the hand when he lifted it, and in front of his eyes he tried moving the wrist. It bent and the hand hurt, but it was definitely getting better. He laid the hand on his lap and sighed, another weak smile upon his lips.  
It was possible that he drifted asleep for a moment, but soon enough his ears picked up the sound of the beads by the door rattling, and he opened his eyes to see Sam entering the cabin. Castiel appeared soon after to his field of vision, and they exchanged words Dean couldn't hear.  
With great effort he pushed himself upwards in the bed, wore a smile and drew breath.

"Hey, Sam," he called out in a raspy voice, gaining the attention of both his brother and the angel standing beside him.  
Sam's face lit up, and relief seemed to wash over Castiel's. The younger brother practically jogged to Dean, leaving Castiel to tend to the boiling water.  
Sam pulled up a chair - a creaky stool that Castiel mostly used as a storage space for heaps of used clothing - and sat on it next to Dean. He leaned his elbows to his knees and smiled a typical, positively surprised smile that Dean knew from before. It made him feel at home. Sam's happiness was the sort that tended to infect others as well.

"You feeling okay?" Sam asked, pushing nervously back his hair that flowed on his face as per usual.

He smelled of the lake and his hair had that distinct look of having dried recently after first being soaked in natural waters. Dean smiled, closed his eyes for a few seconds and nodded.

"Better," he replied truthfully.  
"How about you?"

The more he spoke, the less his body protested against it, and the last word slipped out of his most almost effortlessly. Sam seemed to blush a little, but Dean couldn't tell for sure. It was the damn candle glow, everything was shades of yellow and brown in it.

"Had the evening for myself," the younger brother answered, "Ended up swimming. Man, I've done so much work on the car, all my muscles hurt like hell, even the ones I didn't know I used."  
He laughed a little and shook his head, brushing through his hair again afterwards before turning to examine Dean again.

"Yeah," Dean mumbled, his eyes closed again, "It's hard work."

Sam huffed in agreement. Dean's ears picked up the sounds of Castiel's movements and those of cups hitting one another when handled. Then the sound of water being poured and Sam standing up. He assumed the younger went in to see if Castiel needed any help, saving himself and Dean from the silence that stretched on. It wasn't awkward per se, as it was clearly only because Dean was too sick to actually hold up a conversation, but Dean was grateful for Sam lifting the potential tension before it ever appeared at all.  
He registered the sounds of Lucifer the kitten purring next to him somewhere. With a slow and stiff movement he felt around until his fingers pressed into the soft warmth of the cat's fur. He cupped the kitten inside his palm and brought it over onto his stomach. Its tiny paws pressed about a few times before it sat down and started licking itself.  
Dean opened one eye to see it washing its front paw and hoped he wouldn't sneeze. His nose was itching already.

In a few moments, Castiel and Sam both returned to the room. Dean reached out his hand to accept the cup full of more of the same poison he still wasn't very fond of, even if he'd slowly become more accustomed to the taste. Sam took over the stool again and Castiel landed on the bed, further away from Dean than he usually did, perhaps in an attempt to make their relationship look casual or maybe simply because he wanted to. Maybe even because if he'd sat closer, he would have also sat closer to Sam - Dean would never know.  
With his healthy fingers wrapped around the cup and his bandaged hand lying uselessly by his side, Dean tried to gather his thoughts to ask the questions he wanted answered, but it took an enormous amount of time and effort from him to achieve.  
Meanwhile, Castiel confiscated his kitten and somehow managed to make it fall asleep on his lap without the whole round of washing and trying to walk off. Sam had lost himself staring out of the window.

"We had news, Cas," Dean finally spoke.

Castiel raised his eyes to him for a moment, surprised and at apparent loss as to what Dean meant. Then it dawned to him and he nodded, returning to pet the kitten - he'd placed his cup of tea on the floor to cool down.

"I expect someone to have heard them by now?" the younger prodded him on.

Sam licked his lips and examined his tea more closely after glancing over at Castiel briefly beforehand. The angel's brows knit together for a moment, then he adjusted himself on the bed so that he was more properly facing Dean as he spoke.

"We have two locations - one where we can almost certainly say Pestilence was at, and another for where we expect him to head for in near future. Given the schedule and possible pattern for movements over the past year that Jack has managed to gather together with Adam and Grant, it's likely that he'll keep moving west for now."

Dean grunted indecisively. He lifted his cup close to his mouth and breathed in the mildly aromatic steam that steadily rose from the tea. Then he blew another indecisive huff right into it, breaking apart both the steam and the liquid's calm surface.  
He looked into Castiel's eyes, the turned towards Sam and finally back to his own knees.

"If I was in any condition, we would be on the road now," he muttered bitterly before shaking his head and facing the ceiling as if looking for some heavenly help to fall upon him, "We _should_ be on the road now."  
  
Sam let out an annoyed sigh.  
"Dean, come on. It's not like you decided to stick your hand in a firepit out of spite and malice."

Castiel leaned back and laid a hand over Dean's knee. His expression was unreadable.  
"We're not ready yet," he said simply.

Dean didn't feel any better for it. His hand was beginnign to throb and swell again.  
"I'm not asking for sympathy," he grimaced, embarrassed, "I don't want any pity. I'm just pissed off this had to happen now. Pissed off at myself and, because I can't rationalise that, nothing in particular at the same time."

Castiel picked up his cup and sipped from it, giving Dean a look from the corner of his eyes that clearly messaged him he hadn't been getting any pity from that direction. Dean didn't know if he should be insulted or thankful, so he stayed neutral about it. He noticed the older's arm was trembling - the withdrawals were probably kicking in again.  
"Sam," he called after a moment of silence, "Check the cars tomorrow. Any that we could fit our things in and still survive the conditions out there. Something that'd at least keep us on the road for a while longer."

Sam nodded slowly. He didn't appear to know what to say to it at all, but the way he looked at Dean told him a lot about what he was thinking. The older grimaced a little, placed his cup between his blanket-covered thighs and reached to slap Sam on the head.  
"We'll keep working on Impala."  
He'd never thought that the car was, after all, as important to the younger as it was to him. Perhaps it was for the first time now that it was the only reminder to both of them of what had been before everything had went straight down the gutter.

They didn't talk any more after that before Sam packed up and left the cabin. Castiel lingered in the main room and Dean drifted in and out of sleep, waking to every sound he heard and those he imagined alike. Moonlight shone through the window and painted shadows in the room.


	31. Soldiers (In Hell)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. This chapter spans a book. It was either the shortest chapter ever or the longest; I chose, for once, the latter.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

He stayed in a weak condition for three more days, but then it started steadily getting better. By the time he could finally get out of bed and not fall over within minutes, Castiel had already stopped staying indoors 24 hours a day - Dean hadn't even realised that he was locking himself in, but when he started waking up every morning to an empty cabin and missing the angel throughout the day to come, he finally understood that Castiel had never been one for indoors to begin with. He could now move freely, with neither his own nor Dean's injury keeping him still, and he seemed to enjoy his regained freedom in solitude, for nobody really knew where he spent his days at. Usually he returned before sunset with herbs and whatever edible he'd found from the forest.

Sam, on the other hand, kept working on the car. Dean was anxious when he first left the cabin to check it with the younger excitedly leading him on towards the grounds, explaining what all he'd done - a large part of Dean was convinced that he wouldn't even recognise the car when they'd get there, given how Sam had an entirely different view on how it should be than he did.  
However, when they pushed through the trees to the opening where the car was, the same grassy meadow close to the chain fence not all that far from the muddy miniature swamp from which Dean had initially pushed the car out of, it looked more like the Impala that he knew than it had in years now. It was clean, and Sam had carefully repaired and covered up the spots where rust or damage had done away with the car's black colour. The metal shone again, and the inside was dry, clean and dusty smelling like always, although there were now patches that were clearly different from the leather the interior had originally been covered with.  
In fact, at first Dean didn't even notice any difference in the design at all, but when Sam pulled open the seats, he instinctively raised up his brows, impressed. They had a lot of new storage space hidden in them and although it did make the seats themselves rather hard to sit against, that was a comfort they could afford losing, and a very small price to pay for the great benefit they gained from the improvised cupboards, if they could be called that in the lack for a better word.

The best of all was that Sam had kept silent about one last surprise. Dean didn't expect it when Sam brought him over to the hood and pulled that open - in fact, the older felt a load of ice slip down his guts when his brain worked all the possible horrors that the younger had installed under there. But no, he was wrong again. Sam's finger pointed at the engine, trembling, and the face he wore was that familiar one that sought the approval of his older brother and feared for the worst.

"You... you didn't, did you?" Dean mumbled, bringing his fingertips softly along the greasy surface.  
Sam pushed his hands down the pockets of his jeans and made a sound.  
"I got some help," he chuckled in a terrified voice.

"Does it... work?"

Sam shrugged.  
"I guess. I mean, I didn't drive it. But it starts up."

"Holy hell... Who's the genius?"  
Dean turned to look at his brother, who was smiling so happily it threatened to break the older's heart.

"Sandra."

Dean raised his brows.  
"Who the hell's Sandra?"

He hesitated, looking at the engine. Excitement swirled like a whirlpool in the pit of his stomach and prevented him from really caring - his thoughts were far off the zone his question had sprung from, and before Sam could answer (and he was taking his damn time, too) Dean slammed the hood down and looked at him with his eyes shining.

"Let's try her out, okay?"

His voice was excited like a child's. He tried to tell himself it probably wouldn't work, but that did nothing to bring down his mood. No, if there was a chance he'd hear the engine purr one time more in his life, it would be enough. And that seemed guaranteed right then. Even if it'd break down again - even if it would only come back to life once - he'd get to hear the sound and feel the car around him, alive. That was all he wanted.

Sam looked almost as excited as he did.  
"Dean - one more thing before, okay?"

Dean nodded baffledly.

"Find your collection."

"What?" the older let out, "The casettes?"  
  
"Yeah," Sam grinned.  
He was shifting his weight and moving restlessly, but so was Dean, whose eyes shone with all the emotions he barely managed to contain.  
"I thought I'd never say this, but I want to listen to some of that now. Any, really."

"No freaking way, man," Dean huffed, "Not just _any_ , Christ. You're still a heretic, I keep forgetting. Just give me a moment, okay?"

Laughing, Sam threw him the keys. Dean caught them effortlessly, and their weight and shape felt so familiar in his hands he felt like they were a part of himself that he'd lost and now regained. He turned and ran.

 

*

The smile on the older man's face had an undertone to it.  
Of course he couldn't drive. Not with his hand like it was. The burn was getting better, but it was far from good - he would be able to at most get the car off the camp, should it budge in the first place. Clumsily, he inserted the casette into the radio, feeling Sam's eyes on him at all times. The younger was anxiously drumming at his knees, and Dean felt just as restless, even if he didn't show it. He was occupied enough so that he didn't have to, but when he leaned back into his seat and laid his hands on the wheel, breathing in deep and letting the air out slowly, his heart was racing fast.

He turned the key clumsily with his fingertips and felt his heart stop as the car shook and came to life - he held his breath, expecting the moment to be over and the quiet to fall back around them, but that never happened. The engine purred softly underneath them and Sam looked like he'd just received an early Christmas present, still looking at Dean.  
Dean looked back at him, speechless. He pushed on the radio and turned the volume up and shivered and gasped for air as inconspicuously as possible. Then, as if stuck in slow motion, he turned to look up ahead and gripped the wheel. He barely felt his hand hurting.  
"How much gas we have?"

"A tankful. There's more in the back."

"Let's waste it."

Sam licked his lips and glanced ahead.  
"Dean, how's your hand?"

Dean could barely hear him through the sound of the music. With his good palm, he slapped the wheel, grinning.  
"Sam I don't even care," he finally said and pushed his foot down upon the pedal, "Never felt better than I feel now."

The first two feet happened too fast, swaying both the men on the front uncomfortably back and forth, but once it was gone, the going was steady enough. Dean navigated them along the bumpy grounds up towards the front gate. Nearly there, Chuck came into view - he dropped his shovel and gaped at them.  
Dean waved at him with his bandaged hand and winked. In a second, the prophet started running alongside them, and the older brother reached awkwardly to roll down the window.  
"OPEN THE GATE," he shouted over the music.

"IS THAT AC/DC?"  
  
"YES," Dean confirmed, slowing down a little to help the other keep up with them, "IT IS."

Chuck looked like he was going to shout something more but then, he shut his mouth and shook his head and spurted on to jog up to the gate before the two of them.  
Dean didn't bother to close the window again. A flock of birds charged out of the nearby trees, spooked by the music they brought with the car as they approached the gate and finally stopped before it. The brothers watched Chuck's movements as he unlocked the gate and then turned around to walk to up to them. Unwilling and slow, Dean turned down the volume to hear whatever it was he had come to say.  
"You think you can drive on the road with that?" Chuck asked suspiciously, nodding at the Impala.

"Damn well I do think so," Dean replied challengingly, although he wasn't any more certain than Chuck was.  
After all, the roads were in awful condition, but that was yet another thing he wasn't going to think about before he'd absolutely have to.

"Okay," the prophet mumbled, hesitating on spot.  
"You guys are armed, right?"

Sam leaned in.  
"We are. Expect us back in a couple hours."

Chuck nodded.  
"I'll warn the patrols."

"Right."

Dean's finges returned on the volume control, anxious to get going. Chuck gave the radio a look as the music flowed out louder and louder again, finally taking a couple steps back in a defeated manner.  
"Oh yeah," Dean mumbled, his voice lost under the guitar riff, "Let's get the party started."  
He steered them through the open gate and on along the bumpy, overgrown road ahead. Sam still looked like he didn't really believe this was happening, and for what it was worth, Dean believed his own expression probably looked similar. He glanced at himself through the rear mirror and smirked.

"Dean," Sam spoke while the song was dying down, using the momentary quiet to speak, "Do you actually think we can drive this thing?"

"Yeah," Dean said, sounding more confident than he was in full truth, "I don't have any doubts about that. I mean, these roads are screwed to hell, but it's not so bad everywhere."  
  
Sam looked at him for a moment.  
"And where the roads are worse than here?"

Dean shrugged. He lifted the injured hand off the wheel and laid it on his lap instead to rest. One-handed driving was a little harder than he'd preferred it to be right now, but he'd been here a thousand times and he knew he could afford that discomfort without risking anything. They were driving so slowly for the time being that he'd need to be tripping balls to lose the feel to the road.

"We'll just avoid going there, Sammy. Just like before. Baby can handle most of this bullshit just like we can, believe me."

The next song drowned out whatever it would have been that Sam would have otherwise responded. It echoed in the stillness of the forest. Sunlight leaked through the thick foliage around them, hitting the road like liquid golden snakes that slithered as they approached, disappearing mere moments before getting hit by the car. Dust floated in the rays of light that pierced through the trees along the path laid out for them, and once they were out of the worst part - nearly up to the cracked and worn concrete road that'd cut through the forest nearby - Dean noticed he started to believe his own words more and more. He'd nearly forgotten how perfect his car was, having used so many that meant much less to him personally. He'd driven through hell with this thing, and he'd drive through hell again should it come to it. He knew the weight, knew the suspension and how it acted with bumps and cracks of all kinds, he knew how the wheels came in contact with the road no matter what it was like. It was like his Impala was a part of himself, and as he sat in the seat with his eyes upon the road ahead, there was no doubt in his mind about which car he'd pick for survival. It would be this one, the only car he knew through and through. It had carried him all across the country and back again, and no other car would ever become one with him like the Impala already had. Without lying he could say he'd spent his life in that car - that was enough. Indeed, if it was to become the car he'd die in, it would only be fitting.

When they made the turn to join the concrete road, their eyes landed upon a pair of dumbstricken deer that stared at the approaching noisy thing like they weren't entirely sure how to react to it. Dean huffed as they finally budged to the sound of the engine's roar. Sam leaned on to watch them jump along for a while before they seemed to realise the best way to escape the strange metal beast was to change course and head for the forest instead, and in a moment all of them to the tips of their tails had melted into the forest scenery the car had already left behind.

All too soon for Dean's liking Sam reached for the volume and toned it down, announcing he'd had his fill of nostalgy of the worst parts of their car trips, but as Dean soon demonstrated by starting to sing aloud, he hadn't yet. The younger clearly couldn't decide whether this was more nerve-wrecking than it was comforting, and so he allowed Dean to continue for a good while, even if he did make sure to glance at him with a judgemental stare every now and then until the driver finally quit it. After forty minutes of driving, Dean's hand had started giving him too much pain to be ignored anymore, and he started looking for a place they could rest for a while before he'd either let Sam drive or they'd head back for the camp. He found a place where logs had been left rotting beside the road - there was just enough space to park a car in between the piles. Sam left the car first, but Dean followed him out pretty soon. Without words, they both walked around the car to sit on the hood like they'd often done in the past. The very moment Dean felt the warmth of the metal underneath him tiny, nearly weightless raindrops started falling on his skin. He looked up at the sky and wondered how many times it could still rain before they'd need to seriously consider building an ark.

"So," he finally spoke, rubbing the raindrops on his wrist absently until his skin felt rubbery from the spread moisture, "Who _is_ Sandra?"  
  
Sam laughed surprisedly.  
"I forgot I never answered you," he muttered.

Dean glanced at him, smiling.  
"I forgot you forgot," he admitted.

The younger nodded with a quiet hum, his eyes examining the piles of rotting logs in front of them. The air smelled of forest and logs in humid air - the scent was an accurate description of their surroundings.  
"So are you going to tell me or not?" the shorter urged Sam on.

Sam turned to look at him and pushed back along the hood so that the car gave a little nod forwards underneath them. He looked uncertain, thoughtful, and perhaps a little worried.  
"Yeah. She's Lotus. Sandra's her real name."

Dean opened his mouth but found himself lacking the words he was looking for.  
"Wait, what? Lotus can fix cars? Lotus _fixed my baby?_ " he choked.

"Yeah."

Now that was unexpected.  
"What the hell, man? Since when has Lotus been called Sandra, and since when has she been a better mechanic than Ben?"

Sam shrugged.  
"She's always been called Sandra, I guess. She ditched the name when she joined her first pack, though. And I don't know about Ben but Sandra used to be married, and her husband knew quite a lot about cars - she helped take care of them. So yeah, she knows a bit."

"A bit!? Sam, _I_ couldn't fix that damn engine."  
  
Sam eyed him and grimaced.  
"Dean... I know nothing about cars. Basically I'm just repeating what she said, modesty included."

Now Dean really had no more words to speak. He fell silent for a while, barely noticing the larger drops of water that had started to fall occasionally down from the grey heavens above. Wind was picking up again, too, and it was colder than he'd wished for.  
"So... why... why is she Sandra to you now all of a sudden?"

Sam's hair caught the wind that charged for them from the front. He really could have used a cut. The flying brown mess surrounded an embarrassed yet warm expression. It told Dean everything he wanted to know, and a small 'oh' fell from his mouth. Sam glanced a him.

"Does this change anything, Sam?"  
Dean hadn't expected his voice to be so low and pressing, but a part of him truly did fear Sam would have second thoughts about the whole hunting business now. They'd already agreed on it - but this did bring in another factor, one the younger had always been battling with the most. Dean feared it would draw him away again.

Sam let out a long, worn sigh and shifted again. Then he pushed himself off the hood and shrugged, looking in the opposite direction from Dean and watching the edge of the forest on the other side of the road.  
"It doesn't," he finally spoke, looking back at his brother with his expression serious and determined.

"Good. I'm taking a piss now, if you'll excuse me."

Sam chuckled.  
"I'll join you," he mumbled wearily.

Dean patted him on the shoulder and for the first time noticed he was uncomfortable with the thought of taking Castiel with them. This was the way they were supposed to be - and Sam was leaving his girl behind, making the choice between this life and the promise of another one the way they'd always done. Dean, on the other hand, was bringing his girl in. He was challenging the balance and the dynamic, and no amount of buts was changing that, not even the big one about Castiel being a formidable force in arms, one that would come in handy in more than just one aspect in the outside world. Third driver in the current conditions was an extra bonus too, although Castiel had never driven anything resembling the Impala yet and would definitely be the weakest of them in that sense.

The thick undergrowth behind the logs made rubbery sounds as they walked through it.  
"You know what's funny?" Dean said, still thinking of the situation they were in.

"What?" Sam threw back at him, pushing aside small branches.

"We both headed for the forest for this. It's not like someone would drive past so it would hardly matter if we pissed on the goddamn road itself, but still we had to go through the trouble to push in here."

A branch flashed past Dean, a leaf hitting him on the cheekbone so hard he could feel the skin swelling. He reached out a hand to deflect the next one headed for his face.  
Truth was, he wanted and needed Castiel with them. It wasn't just the fact he kicked ass, it was the fact that Castiel was his friend, his lover and the one person still left on earth he truly did trust to come through with him no matter what. Castiel had been willing to die for him, and the past week alone... The thought of leaving him behind now was like Dean had determinedly tried to dig out his own heart, he could feel the flesh in his chest screaming against the idea with flashes of fake pain charging right and left inside him.  
And, after all, it wasn't really comparable - or that was what he tried to tell himself. Castiel _was_  a part of the team; he'd switched sides to join their team Quixote to fight the windmills. He wasn't a Winchester, but he _was_  a part of the team.  
Still, guilt lingered.

Dean pulled open his zipper and raised his eyes up to the shaking ceiling of thick green foliage above, listening to Sam still moving deeper into the bushes. A few trees on, there were the markings left behind by an animal on one of the trunks. Dean couldn't tell if it was a deer or something more dangerous, but the carvings looked old enough to be from the past spring or late winter. His thoughts used that notion as the first step towards freedom and soon raced much beyond what he consciously cared to think - he was only awakened back to reality when he was once more pulling his zipper up and suddenly realised that the rumbling in the distance was in fact moving closer. It was the sound of an engine, no doubt.

"Shit," he growled under his breath, taking a turn and heading right for Sam, who was now pushing back towards him as well.  
"Sam, you hear that?"

Sam nodded concernedly. He was peering towards the sound, but whatever it was that approached them, it was too far to be seen on the short stretch of road visible from where they stood now.  
"If it's the army, we're frickin' dead," the shorter muttered anxiously and brought his hand through his hair.

"Okay, we need to hide. Croats don't come this far, they don't drive cars and we're unarmed, so we're going to die if they stop and find us. And believe me, they will stop once they see the Impala. I haven't seen a car that good-looking in years now and I don't mean it the usual way, I mean that it's not a rusted wreck and they're going to know what it means."

Sam nodded. They had already taken the first steps deeper into the forest. There was a natural stream flowing nearby, and they took cover by its banks, stepping knee-deep into the cool water and kneeling against the mud. From that spot they could still see the Impala but not much more was visible due to the rising hill and the trees and bushes that covered most of the road they would have otherwise still been able to see. They waited, barely daring to breathe, for a minute or a little less. Then into their sight rolled an army jeep, slowing down as it approached the curve that it never reached - the driver picked up the sight of the Impala and brought the car into a full stop. The soldier riding the shotgun jumped out while the car was still moving, landing with surprising grace onto the concrete. He held his gun out and ready to shoot until the driver came out and joined him, and together they moved closer to the Impala.

Dean had swallowed a mouthful of hellfire. The closer the two got, the more he felt like breathing it out and setting the whole forest on fire. Sam peered at him and he answered his look.

"They're only two," the younger mouthed quietly.

Dean nodded.  
"We stand a chance," he replied, cutting low both the s and the two c's from his sentence to avoid his voice carrying up to the unwelcome visitors, "A really fucking faint one but it's a shot we have to take, right?"

Sam grimaced.  
"They're going in."

With that, the two of them crawled back up as silently as they could. They moved surprisingly fast across and up to the larger of the piles of logs, because the men rummaging through their car had clearly abandoned all caution for the moment being - a mistake, Dean noted, that his men would never take, but the army dogs were a little on this side these days. Arrogant and all-around egocentric, mostly because they had their guns and nobody else had the armour to lift a finger against them.  
One of them stood up when Dean peeked around the pile's corner.  
"They gotta be in here somewhere," the soldier grunted.

"Should we hunt 'em down or just take the car?"

Dean gave Sam a warning look and pointed a finger towards the other side of the pile. Then, when Sam had crawled far enough, he picked up a rock from the ground, hopped up along the logs that the mold and rot had glued together as quietly as he could, only to announce himself present by throwing a rock right at the back of the standing soldier's helmet. He turned with a violent jump, and the other pulled up as well, hitting himself to the ceiling of the Impala. AC/DC was still playing in the background.  
Dean didn't have a choice now - he took a leap of faith behind the pile of logs again, and the bullets flying right after him sent bits of wood flying everywhere. Sam had vanished. Dean pulled himself up on his feet and ran for his dear life, but not down the hill towards the forest but towards the other pile instead. He couldn't avoid the bullets, having no idea from what direction they were shot from other than the general from where the deafening blasts were fired, but he managed to dive behind the pile unharmed nonetheless. He had no time to recover, however. The moment he was out of the line of fire, he climbed again. For one horrible moment he felt a log turning under him as he reached for the top, but it never did more than budge before settling in a pit that seemed to fit its shape perfectly and Dean, as he prepared the suicidal unarmed attack from the top of the pile, was thankful that his end hadn't come in the shape of a rotting log that crushed his corpse underneath itself and the rest that would fall after it. It would give him the time to go out with a fitting war cry, at least.  
The unarmed part was a little sad, truthfully, as Sam hadn't been lying to Chuck - they _were_ armed. Problem was, they'd left their guns in the car. Dean had no idea how he'd gotten so sloppy, but truth was, he hadn't actually expected anyone to crawl up to him while he was pissing. By now, he should have learned. He'd worn weapons all over his body for the past two years, and now that he'd dropped them for the very first time, of course this happened.

Sam had popped up from the other side, just as Dean had expected, and the nearby soldier was momentarily distracted as he aimed his gun towards the larger man charging for his comrade on the other side of the pile. Even Dean's shout didn't wake him up fast enough, and as if time itself was slowing down, Dean felt himself approaching through the air and finally hitting the man right on the back, the mass of his body combined with gravity's efforts at pulling him back to the ground threw the soldier right off his balance. His gun, a neat M16, fell barrel-first onto the ground, dislocating a shoulder as the handle slipped from the man's hand and buried itself right into his body.  
Then for a second, everything was blurred motion and blows all over Dean's body. Someone shouted something. A blade flashed in the white light filtered through the clouds. Drops of water rained down on Dean, and his hand was hurting so much that even through all the action he had to register its presence. It slowed him down, and he could feel the knife cutting into his side as he rolled aside. Fresh blood soaked his shirt. The soldier was reaching for his gun but Sam's boot appeared from the corner of Dean's vision and dug into the soldier's face.

So much for that, then.

Sam kicked the man's unconscious, possibly dead, body out of the way and kneeled beside Dean with a determined look on his face. He reached to pull back the shirt that was glimmering with fresh dark blood, and casually pressed a hand against Dean's chest when he attempted to get up.  
"Come on, it's just a scratch," the older mumbled before hitting the back of his head to the ground and opening his eyes to stare at the sky.  
It was a bad idea: a raindrop landed right in the corner of his eye and made him jump a little. Sam pressed harder and he grunted disapprovingly.

"Okay, you'll live. Anything else?" the younger spoke in a moment and offered a hand to pull him up.

Dean took it and got back on his feet, stumbling a little before finding his balance again. He shook his head, although his eyes were turning right back to his hand.  
"Aside this I'm good," he grimaced, waving the limp, useless bit of business around.

Sam sighed rather empathetically.  
"You just don't get a break, do you?"

"Nah. Get the guns, Sam. And the other dude's knife, I..."  
Dean kneeled down and wrenched the blade out of the soldier's hand, "will finish this."

With that, he pulled up the man's head and pushed the blade into his neck. Blood gushed out - he hadn't been dead yet, but unconsciousness saved him from further pain. Sam did the same for the other man. He looked disturbed by it and as soon as he'd pulled the blade back out he turned to look at Dean, seemingly clueless.

"Okay. Good," Dean managed to say, his thoughts concentrated mostly on how awful Sam had to feel right then - he wasn't used to this and even if he was it would probably be a story he'd never share with Dean from the time Lucifer had pushed him around.  
Chances were that to him, soldiers were people, and this was murder.  
To Dean, this was war: it was just another day in hell.

"We need to get back to camp A.S.A.P. and warn the rest. They'll come along to pick up the truck and the corpses. Someone will come looking for these guys. Damn I'm happy we're this fucking far, Sam. It's still risky as hell. What the fuck. Come, get behind the wheel. Quick now."

The younger barely nodded before lifting the gun on his shoulder and moving to the car. Dean wiped the knife he was still holding into the grass and followed him, hopping onto the passenger's seat this time. He turned the volume down on the music and tried to concentrate on that instead of all the possible outcomes of what had just happened there, the most likely one of which was nothing.  
Patrols like this were taken out all the time.  
Still, it was never something to leave up to good luck, which was why he was glad to notice that Sam had turned no less capable a driver during the time they'd spent separated.

"I'm never taking a single step without my .45 again."


	32. Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It came down to this _again_.

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Dean was the one who walked up to the gate and banged on it with his fist.  
"Hello?! Someone? Where the fuck is the guard when you need them? Oh, come on."  
  
He stood on his toes for a moment, discontent with the puddles that were forming in the wheeltracks on his both sides. The rain fell on him in the form of heavy drops, each and every one of which made a loud snapping sound as they exploded upon contact with his skin. He'd be drenched in minutes, and with that in his mind, he kicked the gate a couple times for good measure in order to hopefully alert someone to their presence. Then he turned and leaped back into the car, sliding onto his seat and slamming the door closed behind him. Sam watched the trail behind the gate and the rain that fell upon the ground there, his eyes cloudy and absent. Dean tried to relax but very soon found his fingertips drumming at his thighs anxiously. It took much too long for their liking for to anyone turn up for them, but finally, someone did.

Grant laid his palms over the gate's side and smirked at them mockingly. Dean raised a judgemental middle finger at him, but he wasn't sure if the man ever caught the sight of it, because at that very moment he turned to shout at someone approaching from behind him. Soon they caught the side of that figure - it was Chuck, and he had the key ready.

Grant stepped aside to allow the prophet to unlock the gate, and together they dragged it open through the muddy ground.  
Sam drove them in and stopped for a moment right inside the gate so that Dean could climb out.  
"I'll bring the car somewhere solid," the younger informed him briefly, and Dean acknowledged his words with a hasty grunt.  
His shoes sunk into the ruined ground again.

"We need to do something about the road," Chuck sighed, looking at his own feet as he repeatedly stepped from one pit right into another that he created by placing weight on the soil.

"Chuck, listen. There was a patrol out there, we took it out and someone has to clean the site," Dean spoke right over him.

He was slipping into pits repeatedly too - Grant stared at the two of them rather amusedly, looking like the Legolas of their uneasy fellowship as he stood there on his bit of suspiciously solid ground, his shoes clean all the way above soles.

"A - like an _army patrol_ patrol?" Chuck replied, falling a little pale in the face.

"Yup, snuck up on us while we were taking a piss. Lucky that. If we would have driven past them or been around when they reached us, we'd probably be dead now. So yeah, it seemed like an army patrol patrol and someone _will_ miss them, so send someone over. Grant?"

"Yeah, on it already, don't worry," the hunter guffawed and started off.

Dean watched him go.  
"Just follow the road east, dude!" he shouted after him, and Grant waved his hand as an acknowledgement.  
When he disappeared behind the wall of trees, Dean turned to look at Chuck, who seemed startled by the attention.  
"Is Cas back already?" the taller asked.

"Haven't seen him, man," Chuck said, shrugging, "But I don't think he'd stay out in the rain either. Go check. I'll prepare the group."

Dean nodded and laid a hand on the man's shoulder.  
"Thanks, Chuck," he huffed warmly before turning and taking off towards Castiel's cabin in the opposite direction from where Grant had went.

He avoided walking on the paths for a good while - the grass was so much firmer than most of the bare grounds, but halfway to Castiel's place he finally considered the track unused enough to try it again, and it did hold his weight. The remaining distance was soon crossed. Dean felt surprised when he saw the angel sitting on the porch, bare feet on the steps leading up under the roof that kept him dry. Rain washed over his toes and was slowly wetting the legs of his pants as well, if only from the small area that bent over his ankles. He held a cup of tea that steamed into the already misty air and his eyes stared upon the grounds ahead of him, some feet from where Dean approached him, and he hadn't yet seen the man, or at the very least he had not yet acknowledged the younger's presence. Dean hadn't noticed he'd stopped, but there he was now, watching the angel bring his cup over to his lips and sip the hot liquid absently.  
He looked beautiful today. It was the lighting, the cold rainy day's white light that wiped the pain and exhaustion from his features, revealing him in a way that was often lost to Dean these days. He still held the elegance of one of the most powerful creatures in the universe, and that hidden strength radiated from him when he was at peace.

The older caught a glimpse of Dean from the corner of his eye and turned to him, a little shocked before a smile pushed itself onto his lips. Dean felt like the ground was giving in underneath him, and not in the way it collapsed in on itself due to the rain but like it vanished completely, and he smiled obnoxiously back at the angel. There was a simple reason to this: Castiel's smile truly reached up to his eyes now, and it lacked the despair he'd unknowingly learned to associate with it. There was no pain behind the blue for that moment, only the honest happiness of seeing Dean standing there. Dean took the first couple steps towards him and from there on, he barely noticed cutting off the remaining distance from between them. He reached the porch and Castiel made room for him on the level he sat on, and Dean didn't hesitate landing on it with a deep sigh.  
Before he'd really thought it through, he'd taken the cup from Castiel's hands and drank some out of it. The warmth of the tea felt good as it ran down his throat and as it reached his stomach, warmed his blood as well. That warmth charged up his body and all the way to his fingertips. He touched the angel's fingers on purpose as he handed him the cup back.  
Castiel drank after him and they sat there in silence for a good while.

"You have blood all over," the angel finally said, nodding towards his direction without really looking at him.  
He didn't sound worried, and instead his tone had a distinct tone of curiosity to it.

"Yeah. Fun trip outside. Ran into an army patrol. Stupid enough to leave the car unarmed, but it was really unforeseeable."

Now the other turned to look at him. He examined Dean as if to make sure he was truly as unharmed as he appeared, and for the most part, he was.

"How did you survive that?" he asked after a moment.

Dean looked at him and swallowed clumsily.  
"Through sheer awesomeness obviously, Cas."  
The corners of his mouth twitched, barely avoiding the blatant grin that was trying to take over.

Castiel rolled his eyes and turned away from the younger.

"Where've you been, man?" Dean asked him now that he finally had the chance.

"Places," Castiel replied bluntly.

"Oh, c'mon."  
The taller's voice was rough and teasing. He lifted his arm and wrapped it around the angel's shoulders.  
"Tell me."

Castiel eyed him, taking his time to judge if he wanted to or if he didn't, and Dean waited, seemingly impatient - in full truth, he was quite content. Castiel was warm against him and he'd just survived a pretty deadly situation only to return here and find this. Things weren't looking so bad now.  
  
Finally the angel gave up. He had a crooked smile on his face that didn't dim even when he drank from his cup and gathered his thoughts.

"I've walked around the forest," he began, stretching the words as he collected those that would follow, "to regain strength in my limbs. At first I didn't go that far. Now I've been to the crag miles southeast and to the river up north, so it should be fair to say that I'm doing better."

Dean stared at him.

"You've literally done nothing but walked, have you?"  
  
"No," Castiel huffed cheerfully, "I've also gathered, as you've noted. Did you like your breakfast?"  
  
"The eggs? Yeah, I guess."

The angel gave him an unimpressed stare.  
"You guess? Dean - I spent two days gathering the ingredients for what you _guess_ you enjoyed."

Dean blushed. He had no idea why, but he did, and it annoyed him. To shake that off his mind, he leaned over to Castiel's cup and pressed his lips to the side. Some of the tea leaked right past his mouth when Castiel tilted it, but that didn't matter. He wiped his chin and neck dry with his arm when he straightened up again. He'd never lifted his other arm from around the male's shoulders.  
The angel was looking at him with an expression that had a distinct shade of lust in it. Dean licked his lips, staring right into the older's eyes, challenging him to think exactly what he seemed to be thinking.  
He'd done it on purpose, he realised now - bent down like that, wrapped his mouth around something on his lap. That had been the stupid plan in some twisted corner of his mind all along; he felt achieved and dirty now that it had worked so well. Castiel reached a hand over to his face and Dean reacted to it by closing his eyes; something about the motion prompted him to hide from it. As a result, he felt the touch upon his cheek more clearly and found himself leaning into it. Castiel caressed his skin softly, his fingers rubbing against the stubble. Dean lifted his bandaged hand and pressed it against the angel's hand, holding it gently on place. It felt all kinds of right there, cupping his face and warming his skin. The wind bells chimed lazily just above them.

When the younger opened his eyes, he met Castiel's gaze and felt like he was drowning in it.  
At this stage, he couldn't really deny it anymore - he was in love. It had happened despite all the defenses he'd built, and the strength of the feeling threatened to suffocate him. It must have shone from his eyes, the realisation and the manner it overwhelmed him, as Castiel soon closed the distance between them. Still trapped in the mess that were his emotions, Dean allowed the kiss to happen, and it was as clumsy as he felt. The tip of the older's nose hit him square on the cheekbone and nothing fit in place like it should have - Dean even managed to bump his teeth onto the older's lip. It couldn't be blamed on the position either. To Dean, it seemed like the two of them had simply simultaneously forgot how to kiss.

The younger barely noticed Castiel's hand upon his side until the angel pulled back from the kiss to examine the fresh blood on his fingers. He aimed his gaze back onto Dean and his expression was demanding. Dean's arm finally slipped from around him to bring his own hand upon the wound on his side. He grimaced, wishing they could just resume the kissing and then roll over to fuck.

"Cas, I'm okay. I swear."

The other didn't seem so convinced. He placed his cup on the porch and before Dean could resist, he had been pushed onto his back on the floor that smelled of damp old wood. Castiel settled over his hips, pushed aside his green, unbuttoned shirt and pulled up the dark grey one underneath to reveal the gash the knife had left on his skin. His fingertips gathered blood from below it, forcing out a quiet sound of discomfort from Dean's lips. He eyed him seriously before leaning over him - Dean closed his eyes and answered the kiss with more hunger than he'd initially intended. For what it was worth, he was aching hard already. There was so much tension in the situation that his body simply translated into arousal, and from the manner Castiel pressed down upon him, it was quite clear to him that he wasn't alone in feeling it. Their hips rubbed together, and every time Castiel slipped lower on Dean's body to adjust them into more satisfying contact the younger heard himself letting out needy, breathless moans.  
His fingers slipped into Castiel's hair and he pulled, forcing the male's head back.

Raindrops bombed both his feet that rested on the steps of the porch.

"Cas?"

"Nnh?"  
  
"Suck me off."  
Dean felt a nip on his neck, a nip that turned into a bite. He arched his back, pushing up against Castiel's firm body, and the angel let out a pained sound that did nothing to make Dean feel bad about himself. Pain for pain, even if his contact with the older's healing wound had been entirely accidental.  
The shorter was panting as he pulled back from Dean. Dean stared at him intensively, demandingly. A nervous smirk decorated Castiel's face.

"I thought the offer went the other way around," he spoke in a low, purring voice.

"Just do it," Dean returned impatiently.  
His breathing was heavy and fast and his cock ached worse than his hand, and in a manner, that ache he couldn't handle like he could handle the throbbing of an injury.

"Here?"  
  
"Just fucking _do_ it."  
Dean's fingers gripped the male's soft hair and pulled at it. He wasn't leaving any options here: what he wanted was absolute. Castiel licked his lips and it was clear that he was hesitating.

"Baby?"  
The word had just slipped past Dean's guard. It stole his breath away, leaving him with just the frantic beating of his heart.  
"Baby, I need it. C'mon," he still continued, muttering, his cheeks hot and eyes watering.

The angel smiled, his hand removing Dean's from his hair.

"Didn't I say once that I do what the fearless leader commands?" he mumbled softly, entirely disarmed and bare before Dean.

Dean closed his eyes and pushed his head down to the floor, gasping for air.

He felt the older's palms move down his sides, carefully avoiding the wound and then disappearing for the briefest of moments only to reappear upon the buckle of his belt. He swallowed and realised his body was drowning in mixed signals. He was both hot and cold, shivering and stunned, and his heart was beating so loud he could once again hear it in his ears from the outside. Each breath he took made him shiver and escaped him as a whimper or a moan.  
His hand sought out Castiel's, and when the older had made his way past the obstacles and pushed aside the front of Dean's pants, he took the younger's cold hand into his and held it tight just as he wrapped his free hand's fingers around the thick length of Dean's cock.

"Cas?"

"Yes, Dean?"

Dean pressed his eyes shut so tight they hurt.  
"I fucking love you. _I love you_ , Cas... Castiel."

The words made the younger's body shake with fear, and he barely managed to take notice of the smile Castiel aimed at him; that genuine, beautiful smile that Dean had never seen before. Then soon after he felt the angel's lips upon him and all the rest was pushed aside. The only things he had to hang onto were the way the other was perfect there, and the pleasure he brought with that perfection.  
Dean couldn't decide if he found the endless chiming of the bells above them ironic combined with the sounds of the male sucking him, but in the end, at that present moment, those sounds were both beautiful in his ears. His nails dragged trails into the wood below and not a single part of his mind paid attention to the possibility of someone walking in on them.  
Castiel's hand, the one that Dean had let go of, was now upon the curve of his hip, cupped over the bone that stuck out much more than before, back when food hadn't been as scarce. His fingers felt strange on the younger man's skin, holding his cock still as his lips trailed along it, and his soft tongue pressed against the flesh in a surprisingly pleasing manner even if he was still completely at loss as to how to work with it. There was little difference to any of the first timers Dean had tried over the years. He had patience for that, more so now than he'd expected. His back was arching as he struggled to hold his hips still, fingertips meeting the edges of the planks underneath him. The undersides of his nails were already full of reddish brown dust from the wood his fingers were carving.

Shortly the angel's touches became more explorative, more brave and stable - the first time his lips slid off along the tip of Dean's dick and turned to kissing the underside instead with his tongue poking about, massaging the sensitive flesh like he was drawing a map on it, Dean couldn't help but let out a small yelp. His hand got tangled in the male's hair again, pulling and tearing ever so needily, avoiding pain but edging on it almost constantly either way. When the angel sunk down upon his length again, his other hand flitted up as well, landing about the older's ear and caressing his face in clumsy, swift strokes, his bandage tearing and ripping as he moved it against the other's stubble. His breathing more often than not got stuck in his throat and then struggled out as a strained wavering breaths, accompanied by the sounds that had blocked the flow of air, and his mind was running almost entirely out of conscious thought, the only thing he could properly concentrate on being the warmth of the older's mouth as well as the comfort he provided by simply existing there.

It was true what he'd said, no doubt, that he loved him. Yet, in the very back of his mind even now, he knew that he'd regret saying those words. He couldn't afford loving anyone, least of all Castiel who had a bunch of issues on top of a mountain of insecurities and damage that wouldn't ever heal. Dean had watched him go down, and he knew. He'd taken distance in part to avoid that clusterfuck, he had enough of his own to look after, and one thing he'd learned about teaming up with individuals who were as damaged as he was - or more so - was that it never ended well.  
The rest he'd already acknowledged, but weakness was something he rarely wanted to look at. He tried to keep it hidden from sight - especially that of his own - so as to not bare a vulnerable spot to his enemies.

The feel of the older's fingers on his skin, slowly slipping from the side of his hip towards the small of his back, was what drew him out of his thoughts again. He gasped and for the first time now wasn't able to hold back the push his hips gave in to, and the manner in which his cock slipped through the angel's wet lips deeper into his mouth was overwhelmingly enjoyable. Castiel didn't seem to mind at all, it was as if he hadn't even noticed, yet his hand did slip further along Dean's back. And then he pushed up with it, suggesting that he could take more, that he _wanted_ Dean to move.  
The younger did. At first, he hesitated, not certain if he was reading the obvious signals right, but as Castiel adjusted his position for better balance and stability in anticipation for Dean's movements, there wasn't much room left for doubt anymore.

Why the hell did he trust Dean like this? The answer avoided the taller entirely. He didn't trust himself, not one bit, yet Castiel was giving over the control of the situation to him so soon like he didn't believe for a second that Dean would misuse it. It was scary - Dean didn't _want_ that control. He didn't want to have to fear he'd push past the limits of the older's, he didn't want to be able to get anywhere near that point. What he wanted was a situation where he didn't have to make any decisions, yet now this all had been forced on him in a way that he couldn't even consider refusing.  
Slowly, uncertainly, he did what was expected of him and started rocking his hips against the other. His hand kept caressing Castiel's hair as the bandaged one simply held him still, the grip of it useless, suggestive at best. His pleasure had fallen down to the second place on the list of priorities as he held onto his self-control and fears of overdoing the freedoms he'd been presented with, and he felt too insecure to even look down at the angel. That couldn't last for long, however, not with the older's lips still wrapped tightly along the shaft of his cock.  
There was nothing that could outdo the sensation of his wet mouth, the softness of his tongue and cheeks against Dean's flesh and, as much as he resisted at first, Dean found his defenses slipping and melting away little by little as his body realised it didn't have to ask for anything, simply take.  
Once he'd found his rythm, Castiel's hand returned onto his hip again, retaking some of the control but using very little of it, merely guarding his own comfort while allowing Dean to take what he needed.

Was it the angel in him that learned so fast, or had he made a point out of practicing this with his girls? Dean had no idea. His mind was buzzing with noise again and quite frankly, he didn't find it in him to even give a damn.  
His fingers bent to grip a patch of hair, tugging at first and then figuring he could use that same touch to push _down_ instead, to gain more from his movements, more steadiness to how he was being received. Now Castiel was using his hand as well, applying pressure onto the curve of the bone at a predefined height so as to not let Dean too deep. They were both making noises - low, quiet, soft sounds of pleasure and perhaps concentration, sounds that the damp, misty air muffled. Dean gasped for air, his spine feeling like a highway of tingling streams of electricity. His body relaxed, allowing the reaction to overwhelm him, his hand bringing back the angel's head in an instinctive act of sheer courtesy for the other before his body was taken over by the invitable.

The feeling seemed to reset him, wiping off what he'd felt before and replacing it with a blank canvas upon which he could arrange what he truly felt now instead. Castiel's hand was in his hair, his body against Dean's up to their chests. Cold, wet air attached itself onto Dean's buttocks and thighs, and he reached a trembling hand to pull up the pants that had slipped that far down his legs. His fingers didn't really do what he needed them to. With a rough chuckle, Castiel pulled them up for him, staying up on his knees after he'd done that. Dean watched him wipe the saliva off of his lips and chin, and he couldn't find anything about the male that didn't scream perfection.  
Castiel ignored him, a hazy smile on his reddened lips, swelling still from the friction. He pulled at his shirt to examine the stains Dean had left upon it, finally turning a judging glare at the man himself. Dean grimaced.

"Not my fault," he hissed, pulling up and gripping weakly with his bandaged hand at Castiel's hair in a reminiscent of the manner he'd done moments ago, "I never told you to get _on_ me."  
His good hand leaned onto the porch and gave him the balance without which he'd simply have fallen right over again.  
  
The angel kept staring at him. His expression was impossible to define - it was warm, but there were shades of things Dean couldn't pinpoint in it, and a distinct hint of examination like he had just judged Dean's whole character through something he'd said or done.  
Dean felt inferior to him, something that didn't happen all too often anymore. More for his own comfort than the other's he brought his hand down to caress Castiel's cheek. It was hard to answer his look, but he allowed it to happen nonetheless, even if he felt like the angel was currently scanning his soul. He felt weak and bare and vulnerable - all those things he hated feeling - yet for some reason now found inevitable, like he'd just need to bear through it somehow. Giving up wasn't an option. Finally, as if fading, the piercing look in the older's eyes disappeared. He smiled at Dean and in turn brought his hand into the younger's hair, stroking and brushing through the coarse strands.

_So you love me, then?_

The message came across voicelessly, but when the words settled in Dean's mind, they seemed to be the exact thing Castiel was telling him with his gaze alone. The younger blushed and turned away, pretending he was looking at something on their side but not really finding anything to concentrate on.  
"Shut up," he mumbled.

Castiel raised brows at him.  
"I never said anything."

Dean glanced at him and judged him.  
"Just don't," he grunted.

The angel frowned and let out a huff but dropped the subject. Dean found himself smiling again. His eyes had turned down upon the stains on the other's shirt, and from the corner of his vision he registered the movements of the male's hand reaching for the cup of tea. It was no longer steaming, but more likely than not the drink was still warm.  
Everything considered however, the taste was probably irrelevant now - no matter how it was, it would most likely taste of dick now. Dean couldn't help the embarrassed snort - Castiel's eyes turned to him for a quick glance and then towards the edge of the forest further away in the opposite direction. His hand escaped Dean's hair along the rim of his ear, stopping by his neck on the way off.

Shortly after, the angel laid down the cup again, having drank it empty. As he turned away from Dean, the younger reached out for him and, entirely unthinking, pulled him back into a kiss. He held the male's face between his hands and just kissed him, afraid to let go for reasons he didn't understand, feeling the confusion and hesitation in the other before he finally responded.  
Castiel's hand pushed into his hair again, just above his neck, holding him there. Their bodies trembled in the abnormal pose they'd adopted - soon enough Dean's muscles gave up and he fell back, pulling the other on top of him.

His other hand fell down from Castiel's face and reached down between them, took a hold of the older's erection through the stiff fabric of his pants and rubbed at it tryingly for a couple times. The angle made his wrist hurt, so he welcomed the shift when Castiel raised his leg over Dean's and landed his knee on the other side, bringing his hips over Dean's thigh. In that position, it was so much easier for Dean to just pleasure him for a change, and with the nuisance of straining his hand in the motion gone, he could enjoy it in a manner he hadn't truly expected he would. Excitement was right back running through his bloodstream, and the sounds and breaths of the older's that flowed into their kiss turned him on in a semi-physical manner.

Castiel's fingers moved down to the strings that tied the waist of his pants tight around his hips like a belt, and with a hasty movement he opened the knot, grabbed Dean's wrist and moved his fingertips to the now loose opening. Dean grinned as he pushed his hand down through the coarse hair and onto the heat he'd been looking for, and the sound his angel made on contact was rewarding like nothing he'd imagined. He was almost whimpering, his voice unlike how Dean had ever heard it before, begging him to continue. And he did, he had no intentions whatsoever to quit now. His fingers bent tight around the older's cock and motion by motion brought him closer to release, and it was almost like he could tell exactly how close the other was by the sounds he made and the manner his whole body turned stiff and then relaxed only to tense up again. He wondered if Castiel was used to feeling pleasure, as it sure didn't seem like it - he handled it like he wasn't certain if it was an intruding stranger or a welcome visitor. That was more than just strange considering how he was supposed to be the slut out of the two of them. The hell was up with him not knowing how to deal with the feel of someone touching him like this? He'd clearly went down this path at least thrice a week for years with _at least_ eight different partners, so how the hell was it possible for him to still feel so fresh and so lost in the sensation?

Dean reached to kiss the older's neck, both for comfort and out of curiousity in seeing how he'd react to it now when he'd so completely let go of his defenses. At the same time, he slowed down the rythm with which he was jerking him off and instead concentrated on the way he did it. The change prompted a very impatient movement from Castiel, one Dean ignored just for the sake of it, a devilish grin spreading over his lips.  
He didn't have much patience for games, however. He enjoyed the manner in which Castiel received everything he gave him too much to not overdose on it, and the more he got from the older, the more he still wanted. He didn't expect, however, that the angel would suddenly turn his eyes to him and force an eye contact on the very moment his body gave up to climax - the sudden calm behind his eyes was the last thing Dean had thought he'd see, and it stole his breath away. All of a sudden the angel controlled everything in the moment; for the while himself, Dean, and the body he resided in were all very still. Then his lips parted to let out the faintest breath, an 'ah' that lingered in the rain, and he closed his eyes and slowly raised his head up so that for a moment his neck was entirely bared for Dean. The younger nipped at it teasingly, then pulled his hand back and used Castiel's shirt for a towel to clean it - as a reward, he received a painful bite on the back of his neck. The feel of the older's teeth digging into his flesh right out the blue just when he'd registered him looking the very opposite direction made Dean gasp and grab the shirt he'd intended to let go of.  
He breathed out the older's name and closed his eyes, hoping the moment would just go on forever. Castiel's breathing was still heavy and fast, and Dean counted the time between each exhale with his skin, feeling how the wait stretched slightly after each inhale.

Within a moment, the angel landed on his side next to Dean, possibly exhausted or perhaps just tired of the pose itself. Stiffly, his fingers undid the buttons of his shirt, leaving it to fall open on its own. He wrestled his arm lazily out of it and allowed it to fall down on the porch. Dean watched him about as apathetically, and when he closed his eyes, Dean did so as well. Through the dark, he felt the angel reaching for his hand and taking it in his own.  
  
Rain still kept falling, but for the moment, it was quiet and soft. Birds had settled in a nearby tree and their chirping came through the sounds of drops against the roof quite clearly.  
"We should probably..." Castiel mumbled.  
Dean waited, drifting somewhere at the edge of consciousness and a shallow dreaming state, his body aching from its multiple injuries without discriminating between the bad and the mild in the slightest.  
"... care for your hand."

The younger let out a sound, not willing to move at all. They both moved like stones had been tied to their limbs - somehow through all that, they managed to drag themselves indoors, still too tired to talk. Castiel closed the door behind them. He did not lock it.

 

 ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

  
© [seraphlimonade](http://seraphlimonade.tumblr.com/)

~*~ ~*~ ~*~


	33. Absolution Is A Short Fall (With A Rocky Bottom)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoooortest ever and on a Wednesday. Forgive my obnoxious self. I didn't feel up to editing a 10+ pages long chapter, which would have been the other option. D:

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Sam leaned to the post and stared at the muddy road ahead. He'd sought cover under the shed for firewood near the gates; the smell of the blocks behind him was strong like incense and kept burning his eyes if he held them open for too long. Still, it was better than standing in the rain, as the weather appeared to stay decisively rotten, and there truly seemed to be no end for the amount of water the clouds could still pour down on them.   
He'd been posted as a guard by Chuck's blessing while the van was off to clean up the mess they'd left behind earlier. Someone had called for Dean, but Chuck had insisted - the look he gave Sam told the younger all he needed to know and much, much more than he had wanted to.  
Recently the most dangerous thing to do at the camp was to follow Dean to Castiel's cabin. He wasn't the only one who'd noticed.

A tiny sigh escaped him and got lost in the hissing of the rain. With a loud, moist sound he pulled his shoe out of the pit it had dug for itself and kicked at the shed's wall until the shoe passed for one of its kind again.  
As much as he wanted to be able to just let everything go and be happy for his brother instead, he couldn't. Perhaps if Dean hadn't pushed him away and left him alone, if the apocalypse hadn't happened, if Lucifer hadn't locked him inside his own mind for years and if he'd been here for a while longer - if he'd had time to recover - he would have shrugged it off with a grin.  
But now he couldn't help feeling... what was it that he felt? Jealousy? Bitterness?  
The combination sounded about right.  
He was lost in this camp. Without Sandra, Dean's newly found affection for Castiel would have landed him without a single ally in the situation. Dean probably trusted him to get around by himself as he'd always done and it was likely he simply didn't understand just how broken things were inside Sam, but if he'd stopped to look for a moment instead of pushing on without ever looking back he would have realised it immediately.  
There was a distinct tone of fear to what Sam felt as well - fear of being left behind again, for the greater good of course.

He shifted uncomfortably. Thought aloud like that, he sounded like nothing but a child, a whiny brat even. He didn't feel like denying it. But the truth was that he wasn't an island either. The things he remembered were things that didn't hold tactical or informational value and were therefore worthless, but they were also things that made every moment he kept breathing another nightmare he didn't know how to wake up from.  
He felt that much better with Dean around. Dean had always been the one he could trust to be there for him. It was mostly unspoken, they certainly weren't the talking type at all, but his presence always reminded Sam that he wasn't alone in this hell on earth. Without Dean, well, things got worse. Much worse.  
The nights were torture - he hardly slept at all. When he did, he kept waking up, panting, gasping and covered in sweat with only minutes of sleep without rest behind him. If it had been as before, the two of them on the road and nothing more, that would have passed. He would have always been occupied with _something_ , and Dean would have been there for him. To get that back, he could have forgiven the older for leaving him behind; it was clear he regretted it. Regret was all he seemed to have anymore, Sam had figured out that much. And all that regret was eating him from the inside out like acid he'd been forced to swallow. How could he demand him to feel more of it? He simply could not. What was past was indeed past. It hardly mattered at this stage.

He licked his lips anxiously and leaned his back onto the wall now instead. If only he could tell that to himself. If only he could forgive himself as easily as he could forgive his brother and the things he'd done. Yet he blamed himself for everything, even the things _he_ hadn't been in control of but that had happened nonetheless. He had been too weak to gain control when it had mattered the most. And he'd tried, he really had tried, but eventually he'd given up. The death toll just grew and he learned quickly enough there was nothing he could do, he couldn't even lift a finger under the archangel's control. The worst part was that he couldn't shut himself out from it either.  
He shuddered.  
All the self-centered thinking aside, he did have to admit that there was that small part of him that was, in fact, happy for Dean. Or perhaps happy was the wrong word for it; there were obviously many unspoken things between the two and as the conditions were, nothing in this world would bloom for long. But for what it was worth, he hated the thought of Dean staying away from Castiel for anything's sake more than he could ever hate what they had now, as it was clearly a healing thing, something that kept his brother from falling apart.

There wasn't anything to that which he could bring himself to dislike, no matter how inappropriate or strange it seemed. Things had changed. They had changed. To Sam, it seemed like the two of them were the only ones left for each other.  
And of course, their stay here was limited. The plans had been laid out and nobody had once questioned them again. They were leaving. At that point, Sam would get the best and the worst of both sides of the deal - he'd get his company, he'd get Dean, and he'd also get Castiel.  
It would also mean that he would have to stay around them together, which made him uneasy already.  
And, on top of that, there had always been the thing about staying on the road for extended periods of time... it got old very fast.

He grinned at the approaching van.  
Well, nothing was ever perfect.


	34. A Public Secret

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"This looks a lot better today," Castiel noted as he removed the last layer of dressing from Dean's hand.  
Dean nodded with an indifferent sound, landing himself in reality mere seconds afterwards. He turned to look at his hand as the angel started cleaning it. Most of it had turned a bright shade of pink as new skin had formed over the exposed flesh. Some spots were scarring over in a manner from which Dean knew they'd leave some ugly marks behind, but he was used to scars. As long as he could move his hand effortlessly, they weren't an issue.

"Aches like a bitch. Had to use it in the fight, man," he muttered, reaching out to pick a black something off Castiel's shoulder.  
The angel paid that no attention at all. He bent over the hand to see it better, dipped the cloth he held back in the water and patted Dean's palm with it for a while in silence.  
"Are you finally going to tell me how it went?" he asked as he pulled back to clean the towel again.  
He didn't return to cleaning the wound afterwards, instead turning a piercing look into Dean's eyes.

Dean found himself smiling.  
"Yeah, sure," he agreed, leaning back and landing a hand on the floor behind him for support.  
He could feel the pillow under him sliding to adjust to his new pose. Castiel returned to softly wiping off dead skin and scabs from the wound - all that had recently started coming off when the wound was cleaned. Dean licked his lips and turned his eyes up towards the ceiling.  
"We drove out with Sam, your miracle girl Lotus apparently felt indebted to him for I don't know what and she, um, she fixed the engine and, yeah, the car works. So we went out for a drive."  
The younger aimed a rather nervous glance at Castiel, who returned it with a mildly amused one.

"Dean," the angel muttered softly, "I have nothing against the two of you taking a moment together to drive around for the first time in years under these circumstances."  
He huffed, turning Dean's hand around and examining the top of it for a moment before taking a new towel to dry it with. He patted the skin carefully, and the sensation almost felt pleasurable to Dean. It was the sort of soft pressure that was both caring and affectionate. He'd nearly grown over the need to not burden Castiel with this, and the more he could relax into the moment, the more he enjoyed being cared for.  
"I was out anyway. You don't need to make excuses."

"I just - retrospectively - it was a shitty thing to do, because it -"  
  
"It was big, Dean," Castiel sighed, turning his palm up and pressing the towel against it, "to you and Sam. Impala's not the thing to me that it is to you. I've never called it home."

Dean closed his mouth that he'd left hanging open for another apology that never came out. He let out a sound and nodded.  
"Okay, so... we drove out, went along the road for a bit, towards the mountains. For maybe forty minutes or something, hard to say because getting on from the path to camp with Impala was, well, a pain in the ass. I had forgotten, I mean, we've been driving jeeps and vans for ages, Impala's like... smashing her bottom to every freaking bump there was. I don't know, man."

Castiel let out a small huff, and a smile played upon the curve of his pale lips. He knew the road alright; he'd driven it often enough. He knew it was a pain in the ass to drive on with a jeep, especially after a season this rainy, and Impala was the least convenient vehicle for an environment such as that.  
"So we drove on for a bit, tested the engine, tested the wheels, made sure the tank wasn't leaking and the cooling was okay, tried faster, tried slower, figured it worked fine and then stopped for a piss. And for some reason, while we were there, a freaking army patrol stops by. They start investigating the car, obviously, probably haven't seen a car that sexy in their lives and she was just sitting there in the middle of nowhere with AC/DC on the radio."

He had Castiel's full attention now. The angel was tilting his head and holding his hand, still wrapped in the towel, and listening to him like he'd never heard a better story in his life. It felt nice - Dean hadn't really gotten into a story in years. He rarely had anyone to tell things to, as Sam had usually shared everything he went through and the rest simply weren't an audience. The last time he could remember telling someone a story and really getting into it was with that one girl at a bar in maybe 2008. He'd described a vampire hunt because he'd pretended he was a writer to get her attention, and it had escalated from there on. He hadn't enjoyed that half as much as he enjoyed this, however. It had been a means to an end, and sharing this with Castiel was more of a bonding thing, something that friends did together.  
Well, if it had been commonplace for friends to go to great lengths describing how they'd murdered two soldiers on the road, anyway.

"And, um."  
Dean dropped his gaze to their hands and for a passing moment was taken aback by the sight. It felt unreal in the way things started seeming unreal when a lot happened at once and you didn't really have the time to get used to it.  
"Since leaving the Impala to them was out of question, we had to figure something out. Luckily, they were two dumb sons of bitches, they didn't even look for us. It was like trapping a really stupid animal, the sort that walks into your trap without a bait installed just because, and then ties itself up all nice and easy. Sam took out the other and I -"  
He grimaced.  
"I climbed on top of a pile of logs and jumped the other."

 

Castiel raised his brows.  
"Unarmed?"

"Unarmed, because we were equally stupid, just more prepared."  
  
The older chuckled.  
"I'd say you're lying, if it wasn't for the cut on your side."

Dean grinned.  
"Well, glad that was of some use. Damn, though. I disarmed the guy when I landed on him but my hand hurt so bad that the rest was a lucky shot. I guess he was dazed from the hit since he missed the shot."

The angel was about to say something when they heard a sharp knock on the door. He glanced at Dean, undid the towel from around his hand and laid it on the floor next to the other necessities, then pulled himself up and went to the door. Dean stretched his neck to see something - he didn't - before he heard Chuck's voice coming from the doorway.  
"They were well stocked, so here's your share of the loot," the prophet said, and by the sound of things handed a bag of some sort to Castiel, "Some clothes and canned food and medication."

Dean climbed up and walked to the door. Chuck waved a hand at him in his usual nervous way. Castiel was looking into the black waterproof bag in his hands.  
"Think they were from further away?" Dean asked.

Chuck nodded.  
"We actually think they could've been deserters," he said, shrugging, "All the better for us. We got a lot of things, Dean. It was a godsend, if you excuse my wording."  
He glanced at Castiel who seemed entirely indifferent to what he'd said. A shadow of a smile crossed the prophet's face before he reached a hand to scratch at the back of his head uncertainly.  
"How's your hand?" he asked Dean, turning to him now.

Dean shrugged and showed him.  
"Better," he said simply, letting the man see for himself what he meant exactly.

Chuck nodded.  
"Great, good."

Lucifer meowed. Both Chuck and Dean raised their heads confusedly - the kitten had stationed itself on the highest shelf just below the ceiling. Castiel never budged.  
"Dean, can you take him down? He keeps going there and he still hasn't figured out how to come down."

"What is that?" Chuck asked baffledly, pointing at the cat.

"Lucifer," Dean muttered as he turned.  
He reached up with his healthy hand and wrapped his fingers around the baby animal's soft, fuzzy body, and brought it down. It hopped down from his hand and ran across the room, hiding under the bed.

"L-Lucifer? Did you name a cat Lucifer, Cas?"  
  
Castiel shook his head. He'd knelt down on the floor and was now taking the contents of the bag out and placing them on the floor in vague groups.  
Dean felt his mouth filling with a flood of saliva at the sight of a cheese roll in unopened wrappings. His stomach ached at the sight soon after.  
  
"He did," the angel said simply and nodded towards Dean.

Chuck looked at him in horror.  
"Why would you do that?"

Dean grinned, taking the pain off his mind.  
"Because," he replied.

"Because?!"

"Because."

Chuck gaped. Then he turned towards Castiel, who didn't see him looking due to his lower position and the fact he was now turning around a bottle of sedatives in his hands. Dean frowned at them.  
"Adam initiated a meeting at eight. Come by, both of you. We'll have a good dinner for once."  
He looked back at Dean before the taller could resist.  
"Nothing excessive, man, don't worry. But we need to eat well every now and then or we'll starve to death before winter ever gets here."

The former leader gave a resigned shrug. It wasn't his position to decide anymore, and more likely than not, Chuck was right about it anyway.

"Okay, so, I'll be heading back."

Dean nodded.  
"Thanks for bringing these," he said.

Chuck flashed him a smile before taking a step out and stumbling slightly. He cursed under his breath, turned and walked across the porch. Dean's eyes caught to Castiel's shirt still laying there. He licked his lips and knelt down next to the angel.  
"They think we're married," Castiel said quietly in an amused tone.  
"They brought your things here too."

Dean didn't know how to react to it.  
"Get the hell out of here," he finally mumbled and returned to the main room.  
His cheeks felt hot when he landed on his pillow to wait for Castiel to finish up with his hand. He would have done it himself, but he'd just rubbed a kitten and was therefore anything but clean enough to touch the injury.


	35. Genres and Roles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was too tired to post this yesterday, so... it's Wednesday! And a post day. Breaking schedules just might bring upon the apocalypse. Let's hope that won't happen.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Dean felt unreasonably nervous as he entered the cabin right before Castiel. It was because the last three or so times he'd been there, things had been anything but pleasant for him, and no matter how many times he told himself this wasn't supposed to go down that path, he couldn't truly find comfort in the thought. The sun had set but the rain was still going on - or rather, it had just started again after quitting the business for a couple hours - but when Dean pushed the door open, he was greeted by the warmth of a fireplace and a thick scent of food in the air. For a second, he felt dizzy from it, and clutched the door's frame as he stepped inside.  
Castiel's fingers brushed his back so fleetingly that he half believed he'd imagined it, but the lingering feel gave him some comfort as he pulled out his usual chair at the end of the table and flopped down into it. Sam was there, and their eyes met. The younger seemed pale and exhausted and somehow breathless. It was a blow to Dean's already sinking mood, as he knew the look, and it sure as hell wasn't a common cold. Voicelessly, he mouthed the words "How are you feeling?" at the other, and not to his surprise got only a shrug for a reply, and then Sam looked away from him. He was sitting next to Lotus, who now took his hand in hers. Dean couldn't say he was surprised.

"Quite the weather, huh?" Adam's low voice sounded from nearby Chuck's usual lurk.  
He was speaking to Castiel, who stopped by him with a smirk.  
"It's much better indoors," he replied, winking.

He was pulling off his role like nothing had ever changed. Dean watched him, taking note of the relaxed pose he'd adopted as well as the fact that all of the _angel_ in him had been dropped on the porch outside in the rain and what was indoors now was once more just Cas the Snarky Junkie. Cindy appeared out of nowhere and hung herself all over Castiel's shoulders while the male was still talking with Adam - Castiel reached for her hands and picked them off his body one finger at a time, gently as ever, without turning to look at her. Cindy didn't seem to mind - she appeared to be quite content as was.  
Dean turned his eyes back at the table and tried to decide which made him feel more uncomfortable: the fact that one of the girls was clinging onto the angel, or the fact that nobody was clinging onto him.  
He decided he was most offended by neither of those things but instead his own weakness, the fact that he was thinking about this and not having his head in whatever the game would have been if he'd been on top of it like he usually was.  
Frustrated, he brought his fingertips upon his temples and rubbed, but the lack of pressure on the side of his injured hand was distracting and the whole motion therefore provided him with little relief at all. To make it all worse, he was dizzy with hunger.  
  
He opened his eyes to a weight upon him, but at first didn't even notice the hand on his shoulder. When he looked up, he saw Sam, and Sam looked more worried than he looked sick. That was an achievement for sure.  
"What?" Dean uttered, his vision blurring.

"Did you just - did you just black out?"

Dean raised his brows.  
"I didn't?" he tried to throw out increduously, but only managed a question.

"I think you did. When have you last eaten?"  
Dean tried to push him away, but his vision blacked out when he raised his hand. Perhaps he _had_ , in fact, blacked out. He glanced around, and nobody seemed to be paying any attention to him whatsoever.

He sighed.  
"Sometime in the morning," he recalled, eyeballing Sam.

Sam frowned.  
"I'll get you something," the younger said.

His hand slipped off of Dean's and when Dean ripped his gaze away from his back, he noticed Castiel looking from the opposite end of the room.  
Despite being surrounded - literally - by women, he was looking at Dean, and he was tilting his head in the manner that didn't fit his adopted persona at all. As Dean raised his hand to wave him off, he noticed a smile on his own face. He leaned back in his chair and looked at the kitchen again, thinking that he might have to start to count the times Castiel was making him feel better lately. He'd never imagined that would happen again, but now it was happening all the time. It was on par with a fullblown miracle that they'd gotten this close, but that wasn't the only thing that had changed. Dean avoided thinking of it, but he had changed a lot in between all the times he'd tried to die within the past weeks. He was afraid to see the full picture, whom he'd become, as that man was a stranger to him and many aspects of him were weak in a way he would have never allowed himself to be. The man scared him so much he allowed him to exist and to slowly take over him, and if that wasn't a sign of weakness, then nothing was.

Sam's unmistakable tall and angular shape appeared by the doorway. He was holding three slices of bread and a cup of something, all of which he laid in front of Dean. The something turned out to be thick stew of some sort, and by the smell of it, it had fish in it.  
The noise level in the room charged up as people started migrating towards the kitchen for their own share, complaining how nobody had told them there was food to be had already. Chuck tried to stop the flow at the doorway, but his resistance was futile, and he eventually slipped out and back on his own seat with a bit of cheese in his hands to chew on. He glared at the kitchen like it had personally insulted him.

"Thanks, Sam," Dean muttered.  
Sam flopped on the seat next to him, leaned his elbow to the table and looked at him expectingly. Dean's bread got stuck floating half-way to his mouth as he returned the stare.

"Get out," he growled, "I'm trying to eat."

Sam grinned. He turned away and for the moment looked healthier than he'd seemed a moment ago. Dean bit into the bread he'd first soaked in the stew and tried to understand at which point he'd decided to starve himself to death. He couldn't remember ever making such a decision, but he did suddenly realise the pattern he'd been on for a while now. He hadn't expected to live, so he'd started saving as much food as he could for an anonymous beneficiary he'd never cared to consciously recognise at any stage. He was so used to being constantly hungry and weak and tired that it wasn't such a surprise he'd ignored it to this point. Either way, it was a strange thing to notice. If he hadn't been staying in the angel's cabin, he probably would have forgotten to eat in the first place. Every time he'd looked at food and felt like he was dying to just bite into it, he'd told himself he couldn't, and never questioned it because it felt like it should have been obvious - they didn't have food to spare, so he couldn't eat unless it was time to do so. Yet, it was never time to do so anymore unless Castiel was making him breakfast. He thought back to the last time he'd prepared food. It had been long enough since. So what had he been eating in the while?  
'Nothing' seemed like an accurate answer to that.

What a stupid mistake to make.  
"So, hey, Sam," he pulled himself out of the loop of thoughts that felt more exhausting to him than trying not to gobble all the food down at once did, "Does your woman know?" 

Sam turned to him with a baffled look on his face.  
"Know what? Who?" he asked in an extremely confused tone.

Dean gave him another glare, then bit into his bread and concentrated on getting it processed. When he'd managed to swallow, he immediately turned to soaking the remaining bit in the stew.  
"Know that you're going batshit insane," he sighed.

He kept his volume low enough to not get unwanted ears for the conversation, but there was still nobody paying attention to the two of them, especially now that the group had been presented with a proper meal that kept them busy. Sam looked down, let out a frustrated huff and turned his eyes up to the ceiling, as if not finding anywhere he felt comfortable staring at.  
"Look, Dean..." 

"Sammy, it's not going to just go away."

"Yeah, I know, but I meant your tone, not my condition."  
Sam turned to him and stalled Dean's next slice of bread in the exact same space in the air than the last one. Dean raised brows at him before grinding off half of it at once.  
"I know you have issues with Sandra. Just please keep them out of my face." 

Wow, oh, okay.  
Dean felt his brows knitting closer, but dipping the bread was like a need he couldn't ignore and therefore, for the next three seconds, he concentrated on that almost entirely oblivious to anything around him, including Sam.  
When he was chewing again, his mind turned to the younger's lecture, and along with his rising blood sugar, he started feeling usually pissed off again.  
"This isn't about Sandra, Sam. This is about camp safety." 

"Oh, really?"

"Really, Sam."  
Dean glanced around and lowered his volume again.  
"Look, Sammy, I don't care about your affairs. Relationships. Affections. I'll mind my tone if you make sure she knows."

"And she does," Sam hissed at him, imitating the way he'd glanced around, just as worried of someone hearing. 

Dean was taken aback by that.  
"She... she does?"

Sam sighed.  
"Yes, Dean, she knows. About the demon blood, about the detox."

"And - and she just, what? She's _okay_ with that?"

The glare the younger aimed at him was as close to poisonous as a man could achieve.  
"Yes. Even if you'll never trust anyone - even if you'll never believe anyone could trust _you_ \- I'm not that jaded. I told her because she deserves to know. She's okay with it because she kinda has no choice, it comes with me. You know what she said? She just said 'nobody's perfect'."

"Well _good for you_ , Sam?" 

Sam drew breath and hesitated.  
"Dude. Either you quit bitching, or we take this outside."

Dean pulled up his bowl of stew and drank what little remained of it, licked his lips and for a moment looked about as placid as an old dog. Then, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and stood up, looking at Sam with a decisive yet saddened look in his eyes.  
"Fine. Let's take it outside," he spoke in a quiet voice and smiled.

Sam looked disappointed as he stood up. They passed the kitchen door on their way out and as much as Dean tried not to see it, he couldn't help feeling the way Castiel looked at him from the doorway.  
It was the one last thing he didn't need. 

Outside, the weather had turned cold. Rain was dying down and instead of a downpour it was now a heavy, slow drizzle. Somewhere, a deer barked.  
Sam leaned to the railing of the small porch and let out an inconclusive, tired sound.  
"Dean, I don't know what the hell is up with you, but I'm pretty full of it. And so is everyone else."

Dean let out a dry laughter.  
"Well, took them a lot longer than you." 

Sam aimed a stare at him.  
"No. They simply had no choice. Do you understand what an iron grip you had over this group?" 

The laugh that passed Dean's lips next was more surprised.  
"An iron grip? Dude, hardly. They ditched me like banana peels. If I'd had any authority over them at any stage, they would have -" 

"They would have what? Sat back and watched you kill the rest of them, too? You need to stop, Dean. Stop with the guilt and stop with the projecting. Take your place." 

The distance between them dropped to nil. Dean's fingers grasped around Sam's shirt and pushed him against the railing. He'd lifted his fist barely a few inches but Sam's eyes were upon it nevertheless, and the way he looked back into his eyes slowly and judgingly hurt like a bullet to the chest. Dean's fingers relaxed, his fist loosened and broke. He let go of the younger's clothes and took a step back.  
"My place, Sammy?" 

Sam didn't know how to respond. He nodded uncertainly, then shrugged.  
"Look, man. I don't want to fight. I just can't stand back and take it either. I need you to... I don't know. I need you to understand what you're doing to yourself." 

Dean hated himself for the tears in his eyes, but at least the drops weren't falling out. Sam reached across the space between them and carefully laid his hand on the older's shoulder. Dean looked away - he could take the words and the fighting but he couldn't take the caring.  
"So... so what, then?" he uttered roughly.

Sam's fingers tensed around his bones for a passing moment before slipping off. He pushed his hands down his pockets and looked out towards the grounds before them. In the darkness, the grounds were limited to a patch of grass glowing dimly in the soft light cast out of the cabin's windows and not much more.  
"Just drop the act. Drop the tough guy, no regrets, all duty no heart bullcrap," he finally said. 

"Right," Dean huffed sarcastically.

Sam paid his attitude no attention.  
"I'm just... what's your problem with Sandra?" the younger asked instead. 

"What's my problem with -? You mean, aside slutting around with Cas what's my problem with her?"

Sam's gaze flashed upon Dean like he'd crawled out of a sewer. Then his expression softened to something resembling defeat.  
"She never 'slutted around' with Cas." 

"What?! Oh, no, you're in way too deep, man, because I _know_ she did. And -"  
  
"Dean, shut up and pull your head out of your ass. Did you see them have sex? No, you didn't, _because they did not._ Sandra has not slept with your boyfriend, and I'm sorry that you think -"  
  
"My _WHAT_?"  
  
"Jesus Christ, just drop it, Dean! Everybody knows!" 

Dean gaped. He'd very recently lost the plot of the fight and currently, his head was a buzzing mess. Finally he managed to swallow and wake himself up from the shock.  
"Cas is not my boyfriend."  
That was the most intelligent thing he could get out of his mouth. Sam opened his mouth to say something, but then the corners of his mouth started twitching and he turned around again. That didn't help. He chuckled anyway.

Dean hit him on the back of his head so hard that it dipped forwards. Sam reached a hand over to the spot he'd abused and rubbed at it, still grinning, although now with an appropriately regretful tone in the undertones of it.  
"Fine," he finally chuckled, leaned to the railing and took a deep breath, "Sorry."

"He's _not_."

Sam looked at his brother and raised his brows in a manner that made Dean want to punch him in the face.  
"I heard you the first time," the taller said, pulled up again and patted Dean on the back, "and I said sorry. Now, is that the only issue you have with Sandra? Because I want you to pour it all out now so that I never have to hear about it again." 

Dean was stuck on insisting. He neither cared nor knew what were his issues with Lotus.  
"No. I don't know. I'm done, man."

"Good. So I don't have to listen to that anymore, okay?"

A grimace fought its way onto Dean's lips. He shrugged, turned away, turned back, huffed and stretched his neck and huffed again.  
"Okay," he concurred at last, bitterly and grudgingly, but he did.

"So can we go back inside to eat now?" 

Sam had his "we're okay" smile on his face again, the one he always wore after they'd fought and the issues were put behind them for real.  
"Sure."


	36. You Could Be Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HATE EDITING PORN ALMOST AS MUCH AS I HATE WRITING IT
> 
> Also hi there was a gap of three weeks, but there was the 22nd anniversary of my birth and I've been busy with life, so something had to go. That something wasn't so much the updates as it was my motivation, though. Huh. Well. Back on track now. In other news, I'm fifteen kinds of tangled with the part I'm writing now. 8( Luckily it's still a hundred pages on from here so I'll still have something to push out weekly.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Dean hadn't expected to enjoy himself – but he did. He had a meal unlike any he'd had in months, and to top that, they started drinking. After the initial bickering and trying to throw each other off balance with sharp words and blame, he found himself sharing a surprising connection with Jane. Again, it could be said - he did remember claiming a connection like that before with Risa, even if it had been mostly to play her and not anything genuine. Jane was a smart, witty woman with a lot of rough edges she had no intentions whatsoever to smoothen out, and Dean had always been attracted to that.  
They shared a corner near the fireplace, hidden in plain sight as the rest of the room slowly turned into a pit of crazy, the sort that took over when everyone was high on nutrition and getting drunk off their asses for the sake of it. On the opposite end of the room, Sam shared his space with Adam and Jack, apparently caught up in a heated, serious conversation that was as out of place in the room as the meditation group Castiel was having next to them with Lotus, Eleonora and Beatrice. The remaining people were all over the place making noise and crowding the room, each taking at least twice the space they normally would require and filling it all shamelessly with movement and noise and the heat of their bodies, and the resulting commotion was both extremely loud and turning the place into a tropical, sweat-smelling pit.

They hadn't bonded like that in ages. They hadn't, if Dean had stayed updated, bonded much at all ever since the day they'd first found out where the Colt was being kept. It had stopped when it turned out that the Colt was literally everywhere and no matter how much they provided men and effort to reclaiming it, it never fell into their hands. It was always somewhere else.

The night stretched on and took the slow turn past midnight towards dawn - it could have been half past one in the morning when Dean found himself drooping over the table and excused himself from what had escalated into a full-on party by that point. Castiel noted him standing up and followed him across the room, although Dean only noticed him when they reached for the door's handle at the same time. He smiled, happily surprised to see the male joining him, and retreated his hand. Castiel pushed open the door and slipped out before him.

"Wait," the angel told him when he was about to close the door behind him.  
Dean's hand caught the thing before it met its frames and held it open as Castiel dropped on his knees and fumbled around in what Dean's eyes could only register as a dark corner of the porch. He did recognise the sound of a match scraping against the box and therefore expected the flash of flame that came soon after. Castiel lit a candle in a small lantern and picked it up, nodding towards Dean as a sign that he could close the door, despite the fact the younger had already figured out as much and was already doing so.  
They moved across the grounds with ease, although the lantern's light was pale at best. The rain had died down entirely.

"Did Sam hand you your ass tonight?" Castiel asked casually, a hint of a grin on his lips.

"Nah," Dean grunted, "I nearly handed him his, though. We're good, Cas. I was overstepping some boundaries and he told me to suck it up. I sucked it up because he seems responsible."

"Was this about -"

"Yeah, it was about it. Cas, don't ruin my mood. I feel alive again. Stop talking about Sam."

Castiel huffed. He grabbed Dean's shoulder and Dean raised his hand to touch his arm, sliding his fingers across the warm skin before retreating. He hid his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans, keeping his eyes on the ground. Castiel's hand left a spot on his skin that felt cold as the night air invaded it again.  
The cabin they were headed for was dark and without the candle's light reflecting from its windows, Dean would have probably just bumped against the stairs and fallen on his face. He was much too tired to function properly. Yet he felt cheerful and good; there was nothing that could imitate the bliss brought on by a warm, fulfilling meal, some booze and a night that made you forget your nightmares for the while. He had a Guns n' Roses song stuck in his head and as they climbed the stairs and headed for the door, both heavy-footed and ready to crash right into bed for the night, he hummed it quietly, brain scanning for the lyrics he didn't quite remember.

Castiel closed the door, and as per usual, left it unlocked. Dean left a trail of clothes in his wake, too sleepy and happy to give a damn. He'd pick them up later - or, perhaps he would not, because Castiel picked them up and brought them to the chair where he then dumped his clothing on top of the pile. Dean was still battling with his socks when the angel slid into the bed and wrapped himself inside the blanket. When the younger was about to join him, the only things visible from underneath were a pair of curious eyes in the light of the lantern the angel had ditched on the table next to the bed, and his nose.  
The sight came as somewhat unexpected by Dean. He reached a hand to tug at the edge of the blanket, finding it stuck in the grip of the other's fingers hidden underneath.  
Castiel seemed to be smiling. He pulled the blanket down, revealing his shaggy hair and the rest of his face, but kept the blanket stubbornly to himself.  
"What are you humming?" he asked.

Dean gave the blanket a harder tug and managed to free it from the older. He slid underneath, his body brushing against the angel's, and pulled the edge over their heads. He was drunk enough to leave all his insecurities out of the space he'd just created, and he pushed himself on top of the older male, his half-hearted, drunken excuse for an erection an unspoken but mutually recognised secret between their bodies. He pressed his nose against Castiel's neck in the warm suffocating darkness and breathed in his scent, letting the air out through his lips that opened against the sensitive skin before turning that tease into a kiss and a nip that travelled along his jawline up to his ear and finally stopped there to suck at his earlobe.  
He breathed out again, straight into the older's ear, and gathered the few words he could recall.  
" _You could be mine, but you're way out of line_ ," he recited breathlessly, " _With your bitch-slap rappin' and your cocaine tongue, you get nothing done - I said, you could be mine._ "

Castiel swallowed. He was breathing through his mouth as well and Dean felt his heartbeat against his own chest, but he was more concentrated on the feel of the male's cock swelling against his thigh and didn't really give a crap about the rest.  
He smirked, planting that expression as a kiss onto the older's neck. He moved down onto his collarbones, explored the pit between them while enjoying Castiel's fingers in his hair and the quiet moans he was letting out, and finished with a lick and a suck at his right nipple. He needed air.  
The space that his fingers opened between the blanket and the mattress below let in a wave of fresh oxygen, and he let it fall closed in just another moment.  
" _I said,_ " Dean whispered, pulling up again to press his mouth against the older's ear - his hand was making its way down their bodies and at contact wrapped tightly around Castiel's erection, " _You should be mine._ "

The angel shivered against him, pushing his hips up and pressing them against Dean's. The smile on the younger's face widened.  
"I can't remember the rest," Dean mumbled, taking the other's earlobe back between his teeth for a second.

"Zeppelin?"  
  
"No. Guns n' Roses."

He trailed the tip of his tongue behind the angel's ear and down his neck, pleased to hear the gasp that escaped him.  
"Did I promise you a blowjob earlier?"

Stupid drunken courage.  
Even the words made his hair stand up and forced a violent shiver through his spine. He listened to Castiel breathe, how every other breath he took ended in a halt and a tense silence before he let the air out again and moved his body in a random way, sometimes pushing up and sometimes simply shifting uncomfortably.

"I believe you did," Castiel finally spoke, his voice nervous and questioning.

"I'll probably, well, suck."

"Isn't that the whole point?"

Dean chuckled. His fingertips were cold when he made space between the other's legs and took a hold of his dick. He felt nauseous out of sheer nervousness and didn't really know why. The alcohol was messing with his perception. Then, Castiel's hand followed him down and he felt the older's familiar touch, the brush of his fingers into his hair and the warmth that radiated from his skin, and he could feel his whole body relaxing to that touch. He took a deep breath and dug up the excitement he'd felt from the thought of doing this - actually doing it was a thing he hadn't expected to happen, even if he had actively pushed himself into a situation where it was inevitable, and clearly, he had _wanted_ to be put there. So there he was now, and he'd better do his best about it.  
Yet, when he lowered himself upon the male's cock, his lips giving way to the tip and his tongue adjusting over the pit by the underside of it, he immediately realised it wouldn't be half as bad as he'd subconsciously feared. The worst was trying to figure out how his throat was supposed to behave, as instinctively it would have wanted to close down on him and that just didn't do well for how he felt was best to work with his mouth. The best part was to feel and hear the older enjoy himself and know that he was responsible for all those sounds, that he couldn't fail very hard if he could get a cry like the one he'd just heard from the older, or that gasp, that moan, that low purring growl. He leaned onto the elbow of his injured arm and tried to combine the tasks of holding Castiel's hips down with holding his cock in a suitable angle for his healthy hand, and that was the part that was technically the trickiest.  
In a minute, he realised he was quite enjoying himself there - that the pros of this greatly outnumbered the cons, if it could be put bluntly like that.  
Being drunk probably helped the part.

Overall in performance, he'd give himself perhaps a seven; he didn't fail all too badly, but to his trained mind it was painfully obvious that he was a first-timer. When he landed back on his side next to Castiel, finally out from under the blanket and quite literally stained with cum from face to chest and hands, he found it somewhat amusing that from the way his angel held onto him, one would never have guessed he'd been anything short of perfect.  
"You're flattering me, being that flustered," he grunted, patting about the bed for anything to wipe himself clean with.  
There was nothing. He gave up and leaned his head down onto Castiel's arm. The angel's fingers left tingling trails on his upper back.  
"And you cum like a virgin."

"Shut up, Dean. You're ruining it."

"Wow. No, Cas, I'm just being honest here."

Castiel reached for something on the floor. Dean held his arm around him tightly so that he didn't slip down - that'd be too awkward on top of a situation that was already edging embarrassing from all points of view plausibly imaginable.  
When his weight point shifted safely back on the bed, Dean had already closed his eyes and nearly fallen asleep right there. He didn't expect the towel that landed on his face, and his body certainly did not expect the fingers that bent around his still hard length. He jumped, gripping the towel like it was attempting an escape, and let out a heavy breath.

"You look good like this," the angel huffed, "Maybe you shouldn't wipe that off."

"Shut up," Dean muttered, repeating the words the male had grunted at him earlier.

"No."

" _Yes._ "

"No."

Dean closed his eyes again, grinning. He was about to discover that he couldn't coordinate very well while someone was jerking him off; he gave up his efforts at wiping himself clean in closer to ten seconds and resorted to gripping Castiel as tight as he could, moaning and whining and panting to the rythm of the older's hold of him.

He never got around to picking up the towel again before falling asleep nearly immediately after what he registered as a quite mind-blowing orgasm.


	37. Two Kinds of Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiny chapter is tiny and late; GISHWHES is taking up a lot more time than it should, given how useless I am. Yay!

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Sam wished he could just drink the need away, but it didn't seem to work that way. Despite being drunk off his ass, he couldn't even fall asleep. The need was like a wound in his gut, raising a fever he couldn't fight off. So he turned in his bunk, trying to pretend it wasn't so bad, trying to tell himself to just stop, but he was already starting to tune in on frequencies he knew would start buzzing with auditory hallucinations soon enough. He was already seeing things: faint shadows crossing the room, someone staring in from the window. When he turned, they were gone. It would only get worse from there. The shaking was starting was well.

He didn't know how long it'd still take until he would be too far gone to look after himself anymore. He'd give Dean his four hours and then crawl across the grounds to the angel's cabin - he was certain enough the two of them had crammed themselves in that one after leaving together. The only thing he wished for was that they would be at least half-decent when he'd barge in.  
Sandra had stayed later than him, and he'd picked his new cabin instead of hers to suffer through the night. At that point, the symptoms hadn't been so hard on him yet, but bad enough to ruin his mood. Now they were getting worse by the minute and the _need_ was like a flame that would eventually swallow him whole.

The sweating was probably the worst part of this stage. He was by now too used to seeing things, he'd barely had an hour go by after being freed from Lucifer that he didn't see something that wasn't really there, but wetting everything he wore and everything he touched with sweat was not only inconvenient but it also got disgusting very fast. Then he grew cold, of course, as a result of being wet and exposed. That made him shiver harder, and shivering prompted cramps from his tense muscles that the strain brought to their limits. Stretching those muscles made him sweat more. The circle had no end at all, and he was powerless against it.  
And it would only get worse. He'd thought about it earlier and searched the camp for any place they could safely lock him in, but there seemed to be none. The only option was to tie him up and even the _thought_ of that threatened to pop a vein from the his brain. It was the most stressful thing to suffer through - being entirely helpless against whatever his mind would throw at him. And, of course, the physical injuries wouldn't help. Ropes would burn through his skin like hot iron in less than a day. If they had cuffs, he'd probably grind off his flesh as well.

A pained sigh escaped him as he turned again. Then he cackled, snorted and laughed, turning again.  
For the first time in his life, he wished there was a small cushioned white room he could lock himself into and just give in, lose his mind. No fighting, just containment and facing the inevitable. The fact he knew there was a chance for him to get free and wreak havoc was the most painful thing to go through - not the withdrawals themselves, he knew by now they were a sign of his body cleansing, but understanding the risk he posed to everyone and everything around him.  
He would have chosen any other form of torture over it.

*

"We're late."

Dean stirred, turned and tried to open his eyes. They felt so swollen and sticky that achieving it only gave him a thin slit of bright light, interrupted by Castiel's face.  
With a small jump in the pit of his stomach he grew aware of the he older's fingertips gently drawing spirals upon his inner thigh. He swallowed and realised he'd forgotten what the other had said.  
"What?" he clumsily pronounced, blinking.

The slit widened to almost normal proportions. Castiel smiled, a hint of tease in his expression.

"I said we're late," the angel repeated, pulling his hand back and leaning in to kiss the younger instead.

Dean answered the kiss - it was much too early for him to think anything of it, the only response he had to anything at all was to be mildly dumbfounded and slow.

"From what?" he breathed against the other's lips when they finally parted to let him speak.

He'd never watched Castiel smile from this close, nor had he ever really felt like he was actually drowning in his eyes, but this was too close for comfort. His expression must have reflected the shocked state he was in, as Castiel pulled back with a laugh.  
"From everything, Dean."

Dean closed his eyes, stretched and pulled up.  
"Yeah. Okay."  
He rubbed at his face and tried to concentrate on something that wasn't his morning wood and the fact he could blame it on nothing but Castiel's intruding fingers.  
"So."

The angel slipped off the bed and moved to the main room, leaving Dean with one foot out the bed and one still under the blanket.  
His brains were still waking up, and not particularly fast at that. It was the hangover without hangover from last night; his body was so well fed and rested that it took its time putting aside the recovery mode and returning to its normal state of activity.  
After half a minute or so, he was on his feet and looking through his clothes - he didn't bother with underwear, instead pulling on a loose pair of rainproof army pants with the intention to maybe slip off into the forest later on. For what, he wasn't sure yet. Maybe mushrooms. Maybe fishing. Maybe he'd actually attempt to hunt. But for something in any damn case; he was getting out of the camp and doing something productive that would help the whole camp instead of just himself this time. He owed them that.  
And, depending on how Sam was feeling, maybe the younger would join him.

He stepped into the kitchenette with a heavy feeling in his chest.  
"Sam's probably not doing fine, is he?" he muttered aloud, reaching for the array of food they'd received the other day.

Castiel looked at him, surprised. Then the surprisement died out and he nodded, seriously.  
"The symptoms should be kicking in hard soon enough," he agreed.  
Dean's heart sank a little further still and he let out a heavy sigh.

"Cas?" he mumbled, laying down the slice of bread he'd intended to cover with cheese and roast on the pan.  
The angel turned to him, leaning his hips to the cabinets behind him. Dean looked him in the eye, feeling lost.  
"What do we do with him?"

Castiel licked his lips and looked away. The silence lasted so long that Dean assumed he had no more idea than he did, and he started preparing his breakfast again, although his appetite was as good as gone by then.   
Finally Castiel did speak.  
"I've been thinking about that, Dean," he said over the sounds of the bread preparing in what little oil Dean had thought they could afford for a one-man meal.

Dean turned to look at him, not sure what to expect.  
"We could take him back to Bobby's. It's past one hot zone, but your clone went in there and lived to tell the tale."

Dean's chest felt like his heart had turned to ice and started to melt into his veins. His fingertips trailed along the skin stretching between his pecs like he could somehow relieve the ache that way. It did sound like a plan.  
One he hated and would have given anything to not fulfill, but they didn't exactly have a storehouse for crazy-as-fuck, at least none other than the graves deeper in the forest. He let out a strained sigh and shivered.   
"Okay," he said then, "Okay." 

"Okay?"  
  
He glanced at Castiel with all the intentions of glaring at him, but he simply couldn't look him in the eye, and turned away again. The angel laid a hand on his shoulder. He got half through the motion of pushing him away before changing his mind - from the corner of his eyes, he saw the small smile on the older's features.  
"Yeah, Cas. Okay. I don't have anything to add to that. What do you want, a golden star?" he huffed irritably, "Sorry, we're all out." 

Castiel's smile grew bolder for a passing moment. Then his hand slid off of Dean's body, and he leaned to the cabinet with all his back for a second, gathering what looked like motivation and energy to do what he was intending to.  
"I'll go check on him. Eat your breakfast, Dean, and start packing." 

"Yeah."

Seemed like he wasn't off to the forest after all.


	38. No Quarter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irrelevantly, it's Misha's birthday. Go make a donation to RA or bake a pie for your neighbour. Buy someone a coffee. Make yourself a pie and enjoy it slowly. Anything nice.
> 
> My chapter is not nice.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Sam heard the knock, but he wasn't certain if it was real. He pulled the blanket over his head and pressed it against his ears, feeling hot and swollen from head to toe, yet at the same time cold with sweat and like his insides were full of ice. The voices and sounds all over the cabin were growing and fading, and he just wanted to sleep - he had no recollection of how much time he'd spent lying there, but he hadn't spent it by sleeping, that much was for sure. His stomach felt like there was an open wound right through his gut.

The knock sounded again. This time, it did provoke a tiny stir from the man. Slowly, Sam pushed the blanket back down and raised a hand to wipe off sweat from his face. The bed beneath him was soaked and his clothes felt like he'd gone swimming with them still on. His mucles trembled when he got up to a sitting position, and his vision followed sluggishly behind when he turned his head towards the door.

_Knock, knock, KNOCK._

Judging by the persistence of it, the sound had to be real. There truly  _was_ someone by the door. Sam turned his eyes towards the window and tried to understand how it was light out there now when it had just a moment earlier been pitch black in every window. As he watched, a bee flew right into the window he was staring at, and the knock it made resembled the one he'd heard from the door. What if it had been the bee the whole time?  
The bee was gone now.

"Sam? Are you there? If you are, then get up and answer the door. If you're not, I guess I'll look from the shed next, because I don't know where else to go anymore, and I'm going to look really funny standing here shouting at an empty cabin. So, if at all possible, please be in there and open the door."

It sounded like Castiel's voice.  
Still hesitating, Sam stood up and considered changing into something that wasn't wet with sweat. Somehow, the idea died on the way to fulfillment and he turned to walk to the door instead. Each step he took was weak and ended with a question of whether or not the foot he leaned on would actually last under his weight, but every time somehow it did, and he reached the door in due time. The lock was cold like ice when he touched and opened it and pushed the door ajar. Castiel's expression seemed to reflect all the things Sam had subconsciously expected, and the only surprise was that he hated having been right.  
"What?" he tried to spit out in an annoyed voice, but what came out was barely a hoarse whimper.

Castiel licked his lips uncertainly.  
"You should probably sit down, Sam," he spoke then.

Sam huffed. He stepped one step backwards, letting the angel in. The older invited himself further, examining the cabin like it was somehow drastically different from those he'd seen and potentially held some big clues on things Sam wasn't aware of. The taller pushed his hair behind his ears weakly and stumbled over to a chair, figuring that for once, taking the advice was more wise than ignoring it. He was beyond the point where everything irritated him, but at least this time he could reason with himself, knowing it was because of the withdrawals and not actually anyone's fault.

After a while, Castiel turned back towards him, pushed his hands down the pockets of his worn jeans and tilted his head, looking so human that Sam's mind had difficulties convincing itself that this was indeed the angel and not his vessel or some kind of a doppelgänger.  
"Sam, if you have something you want to keep with you, should pack it now. And say goodbye to Lotus. We're leaving."

Sam's brain refused to pick the words apart, so whatever Castiel had said remained a long, messy rope of incoherent words and unintelligible messages. He reached to rub at his forehead, ears ringing.  
"Where?" he finally asked.  
His brain registered pain all over his head. No matter where he rubbed, it didn't help.

"Bobby's place."

"Bobby's dead."

"Yeah," Castiel said, and Sam looked up at him, managing to feel a flash of surprisement at the tone of his voice.  
He couldn't quite tell the feelings apart, but combined, they made the angel sound at least as devastated as he felt at the fact.  
"But we're not going there for him, Sam. We're going for you."

"Oh."  
It did make sense.  
"Oh. So, uh."

No.  
 _ **No.**_

Sam's eyes sought contact with the angel's and before he realised it - before his balance could pick up - he was standing up straight. He slammed a hand against the table behind him to stop his body from falling right back into the chair, barely stabilising the swaying horizon, yet still a little more balanced than without.  
"You intend to lock me up?"

Castiel licked at his chapped lower lip again and tilted his head seemingly nervous.  
"Yes."  
His voice in turn had no nervousness to it at all, but he was the weaker party here. And Sam _was_ dangerous.

What a strange situation. Sam had never in his life considered himself a threat to Castiel, an _angel of the Lord_ \- a nuclear warhead in human disguise.  
But no more. No, now Castiel was just one broken thing among the rest. And he was weak. Probably not half the fighter Dean was, and Sam could take Dean down, too.  
  
He sat back down, legs now trembling with adrenaline instead of weakness. His mind was swimming.  
This was his family. _Castiel_ was his family. Dean was his family. He didn't want to threaten nor harm either of them. He tried to fish out logic and reason instead - he knew they were there somewhere. Deep perhaps, but he had them both; they were his strongest points.  
He'd chosen this himself. He'd wanted to be locked up, wanted to be... helped. And this plan was to help him. It was a horrible plan, he could see that even in this awful state he was in, but since his brains were out of order, he could hardly complain, and he'd never in a thousand years come up with a better plan.

"Cas?" he breathed out, leaning to the table.

The angel stepped closer and landed crouching in front of him to get an eye contact. He looked older than he'd been when he'd joined them. In fact, Sam could see a couple grey strands in his hair now; that probably wasn't due to age as much as it was due to strain, both mental and physical, but it made him look different.  
Sam could have sworn the grey hadn't been there when he'd last looked at the angel, but then again, he hadn't really been looking recently - if he'd _ever_ really looked at all.

"What is it?"

"Can you spare a moment?"  
Sam's voice sounded dry like paper to him, and exhausted beyond recognition.  
Castiel smiled.

"Certainly."

"I can't trust myself - with Sandra. Alone. I - if you can... get her for me and stay... here."

The angel nodded, pulling up.  
"I can definitely do that."

Sam watched him go, although he wasn't sure he'd left when the door closed. He tried calling out in a wavering voice, but that didn't really help. Of course he got no answer, but now he had a feeling he'd been _heard_ ; that in there somewhere was something watching him, waiting. And it most certainly wasn't Cas.

He sighed, trying to lean back and relax instead of tensing up and doubling over like he was instinctively trying to do. He knew that made matters worse: the position messaged his brain that there was, in fact, something to fear, which in turn agitated his mind even further. He wouldn't go there if he could avoid it. He struggled to take his mind off of the feel of fear and eventually managed to stand up again. His steps echoed in the wooden room (impossible, given how thick and dusty the planks were) and the creaking sound the window made when he opened it up was deafening. Shivering, he moved over to the bag Dean had found from his cabin and dug around for a bit, trying to find some clothes he'd feel more comfortable in. His breathing came out in heavy huffs and his mind was still buzzing, making it hard to concentrate on the task, but he'd learned a lot from the first time. If he'd concentrate on something physical, something he could control, the symptoms would easen a little. The sweating and aching, of course, would not tone down so much as the other portion would, but as the physical was directly related to the emotional, in the end if he could sufficiently control his mind, he could also affect his body. With cold, clumsy fingers he pulled up a new shirt and discarded the old one, knowing all too well he'd have to pack these clothes up in a plastic bag or anything resembling one to avoid making everything he owned one large heap of foul-smelling rags nobody wanted, or even could, wear.

When he was, he reached for a large bottle of water he'd brought in with him when he'd first checked the place out and with that in hand, wandered just far enough outside to pour some of the water on himself to wash off the worst smell. It would be entirely useless to put on a fresh shirt if he'd only ruin that too, and little by little he drained the bottle's contents. He drank the drops that remained, sitting down on the porch so heavily he could have sworn the impact bruised his backside. The summer weather actually felt rather nice on his inadequately washed skin, its touch so much more natural than the hell raging inside his veins. His muscles still felt strained and unwilling as he dragged the new shirt across the porch and pulled it over his slowly drying skin, but all in all, he did feel better now.  
The gusts of wind that occasionally bent the trees, bushes and grass as far as Sam could see did their job at keeping him mostly sweat-free until he saw Castiel's shape again. After him walked Sandra. When she saw him, she sprinted on leaving the angel behind. Castiel stopped after a few steps and sat down on the ground, back against a tree just far enough to not hear what they'd say but still see if he was needed.  
Sam was grateful for that.

The colours of the day seemed to mix together - gold with green and green with grey and grey with brown and gold again until everything he saw around Sandra was a blur. He didn't care as long as he still saw her. She sat on the porch next to him, her whole expression radiating with the knowledge already; this would be the last time they'd be together like this. They would likely never see again at all.

Further away, the fallen angel turned to look at the sky, arms around his knees, skin almost paper white in the pale light cast through the clouds.


	39. Thought and Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I'm goin' to Rosedale_   
> _Take my rider by side_   
> _Anybody argue with me man_   
> _I'll keep them satisfied_   
> _Well, see my baby, tell her_
> 
> _Tell her the shape I'm in_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man I'm so sick; if the chapter's funny, blame my brain being roasted.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Dean stared into his open bag, trying to imagine what he had left out. He already had three other bags - the first one was stacked full with weaponry, things that he usually carried in the Impala but hadn't, for obvious reasons, stored in it for a good while now. The other had food, everything he could get his hands on that wouldn't spoil layered for the bottom and everything that would spoil as the icing on top, as he sure as hell wasn't leaving any of that behind. The smallest bag had his clothes and personal belongings. He'd never realised how little of those he had, not really, until he'd been forced to decorate his cabin with nothing.

Now he'd gathered up all that said nothing, and even after dumpster diving in the storage space on the extra level of his cabin, he had next to nothing in the bag. He had more pairs of boxers than he had anything he _wanted_ to take with him but did not necessarily _need_ , and for the record, he was running low on boxers, given that they tended to wear out fast and there were few malls left to restock from.

That was both a hilarious and a depressing notion, and Dean's mind was stuck on it. He lifted a shirt and tried to convince himself the holes in it weren't bad enough to make it unusable. He needed something to fill the bag with. Something that'd make him feel like he hadn't become something less than a human being with a story and memories of his own, but the truth was, this was everything he owned. He let out a deep sigh and pulled up the bags. He carried the large bag of food with his wounded hand and the extremely heavy bag of weapons and ammunition with the other, leaving the personal one hanging loosely over his shoulder, as it barely weighted anything in comparison to the rest he carried. He had to stop thrice to stretch and rest on the way to the car, and on each occasion, he didn't bother letting that bag down.

He didn't leave it behind either as he left the Impala and headed for Castiel's cabin. Castiel had belongings. He had loads of them, and Dean was particularly fond of some of the things he probably didn't intend to take along, so he could in all secrecy pack those in his own bag. The angel also had half Dean's functioning wardrobe by now, so that was something he probably wanted to take with him.  
  
Leaving the place didn't strike him as painful at all, even if it did give him a sense of melancholy that lurked underneath every loose thought and emotion that he carried along with him. He did want out. He also knew that the people who would remain would probably be better off without him, at least once they'd finally set up a proper pecking order that would inevitably happen once he was gone for good, so guilt wasn't something he felt over the decision.  
The time to go had come faster than he'd expected, with every one of them less than capable of surviving the conditions ahead for any longer than it would take them to reach Bobby's place; Castiel was still recovering, he'd barely gotten out of bed himself and Sam... Sam didn't even need a mention.  
  
When he pushed through the beaded curtain into the apartment, stepping over the curious kitten greeting him by the door without sacrificing a thought to it, he realised this three-week period was probably one of the longest periods of time he'd ever spent in one place. Granted, he had been on the raid to the city once, but that had only been for a few hours. He couldn't recall ever having the luxury of not having anywhere to drive. Well, that was over now, and it wasn't like he was unhappy about it. He'd grown up like that, never really having a place to stay, so being on the road was the only way he really could feel normal. At other times, he was constantly anxious, feeling as if he was wasting time when he really should have been doing something else. Before he'd had a mission that had kept him travelling all the time as he'd chased after the Colt for months, so the stillness or even the possibility of it had never really occurred to him before.  
As he pulled open the box under Castiel's bed and wrapped a few of the bottles and the pack of condoms inside a worn shirt, he wondered if he'd been able to lead a life in a normal environment at all; that if he'd had a wife and a kid and a two-story house with a lawn of his own, how long could he have stayed there and actually been content? The restlessness would have struck him at a point or another. He wasn't made for a life like that.  
He doubted Sam was much different, yet the way the other adjusted to normalcy was much smoother than the way he... he never did, in full truth. But maybe Sam didn't either. Perhaps he just covered it up better.  
  
In this world, Dean would never really get to know.

He kept collecting bits and pieces of his own belongings from all over the place for the next fifteen minutes and, to his minor surprise, managed to fill the bag. Afterwards he landed on the bed, spread-eagled, and took it upon himself to keep an eye on the ceiling in case it'd fall down. It didn't. Minutes passed. The branches behind the curtain-covered window kept poking at the glass in an uneven rythm, shaken by the random gusts of wind that characterised the weather outside.  
  
Did he have something he wanted to do now? Something he _could_ do?  
  
There seemed to be nothing.  
  
After all this time he'd spent on Camp Chitaqua, he'd grown fond of nothing in it, if not this one cabin. So he'd stay there and wait - after all, it was the only place he felt remotely at home in, even if most of that was due to Castiel and not the cabin itself. Slowly, the man rose up and lit a candle for the sake of it. He was just dropping back on the bed when he heard footsteps on the porch.

"Dean?"  
It was Castiel.

"I'm inside," Dean replied, his butt colliding with the mattress for barely a second before he was up again and walking to the door.

Castiel came in first and after him came Sam, who looked pale and tired and sweaty. Dean raised brows at him but Sam merely passed him and found a pillow to fall onto.  
"I'll collect my things," Castiel said, brushing Dean's arm on his way past, "Then we'll need to inform, well, Chuck. He can handle the rest."

Dean nodded, then walked over to Sam and sat down on the floor next to him. He got the eye contact he'd sought but Sam clearly had difficulties focusing his gaze on anything and he soon gave up, looking down at his knees instead. Dean frowned.  
"It got that bad overnight?"

"Dean... I don't really want to talk, okay?"

"Yeah, I get that. But I need to know how you're doing."

Sam glared at him, still unfocused.  
"I'm doing great, Dean."

"How long 'til you flip?"  
  
"The hell would I know?" the younger spat out, shivering, "A day? Two? A week? I just - I can't think straight."

Dean grimaced. He reached a hand over to the taller's shoulder and grabbed it, holding just tight enough to signal that he was there _for_ Sam, not against him. The younger twitched but did not push him away.  
"Make it two," he said sternly, in the same manner he'd given orders to his brother when they'd been much younger.  
Sam's lips turned white for a passing moment as he bit on them before relaxing slightly. To anyone else, his hint of a nod would have gone unnoticed, but Dean saw it. He'd known to look for it.

Castiel turned a box over on the bed and started picking through things that looked like trash metal to Dean. He stared, and so did Sam, as the angel carelessly poked about the pile, throwing parts back into the box and discarding others on the bed in their own pile. A sense of hollowness resided inside Dean's chest as he watched the littered bed. Perhaps this _had_ been a home for him. He tried to think forwards to seeing Bobby's place, but he soon realised the whole Singer property had to look as bad as the rest of the world did now - abandoned, broken, rusted. Even more so than usual. A lot more so than usual, in fact.  
A worn sigh escaped him.  
The worst part was that Bobby would not be there to greet them, or to yell at him, or to splash water on their faces. The thought hurt him physically.

Dean's eyes caught movement as Castiel dropped on his knees to look under the bed. He grinned as he watched the angel pull open the box he'd looked through earlier, and he throughoutly enjoyed the confused stillness in the male's figure as he realised the loss of the bottles. Then he turned to Dean, noted his grin and a wave of realisation washed over his features. His confusion turned to amusement. He winked - Dean smugly raised a brow at him in return. Sam was busy holding his head as Castiel returned the box under the bed with a sentimental look on his face and pulled up again, stretched his back and picked up the other box he'd left on the bed. It still contained the parts he'd thrown in there, and they made metallic sounds as he brought them back to the main room.

"Dean," he spoke as he turned towards the kitchenette, "go find Chuck."

Dean huffed. His hand slipped off of Sam's shoulder as he stood up, somewhat surprised he'd actually taken the task upon himself. It seemed entirely unusual for him these days to simply do something without whining about it first - the notion made him decide he'd concentrate more on being helpful in the future.  
"I'll be back in a bit. See you by the car?"

"Yeah."

"Hang in there Sammy," he muttered from the doorway before exiting the cabin.

The grounds smelled of summer forest and flowers. As Dean walked along the battered path making sure he stepped heavily on every patch of grass upon it - a habit he'd taken to fight in the sneaky war fought between pathways and wild nature - he started feeling it in full, the loss of something and the excitement of beginning anew. He didn't feel like he was going off to kill himself. He felt like he had a purpose again, a plan to follow, one that didn't actually stink of death as much as the previous one had. He had Sam now, and Sam had to be fixed. He knew he could help win that battle, and he knew Sam wanted it too, no matter how painful and desperate it would be in the end.  
The truth was, Sam high on demon blood would have worked well for them, had there been any demons around to use for refills. He was a perfect weapon in a world like this, strong and for the main part immune to the pitfalls and bullets of their enemies. Dean had thought this before, sometime after losing his brother and on his path to his own personal hell that he'd built with his own bare hands - he'd realised the man's value in all the ways he'd always refused to think of him before. Sam as a tool, as a weapon, and not as his family, someone he loved and would die for. His anger and feelings of betrayal had allowed him that.  
Yet, even through all that, he'd known it was a fantasy on par of having an actual nuke. That had become clear to him if not right from beginning, then from the moment he'd seen Castiel deteriorate at the rate he had. It had reminded him of their realities, like the fact that demons were dying out and that Sam in that condition was anything but reliable. The power he gained in itself was already corrupted, but ultimately, it was the blood that changed him, made him something uncontrollable and dangerous to everyone, a loose gun that couldn't be held down.  
The blood made him, in full truth, a monster. It drained the Sam out of him and replaced it with the taint of hell.

Right now, it wasn't the facts that kept Dean from utilising Sam's powers, however. The only thing that mattered was that it was Sam, and the poison in him made him sick. It was destroying him - so it had to go.


	40. Songs of the Dead Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday was Tuesday, but is today Tuesday too? I don't know what time zone I'm following anymore.  
> Here's a chapter to celebrate whichever day today is, however.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

With Chuck's help, they made the rest of preparations in a little under six hours. Midnight was at hand when they finally declared everything to be good and ready for the test. The downside, of course, was that they could not leave in the dark and would have to wait for sunrise - the roads were in a terrible condition, so they would probably end up destroying the car before they could get within a walking distance of the camp if they tried to leave now.

So once the car's trunk was slammed closed for the last time, Dean, Castiel and Chuck all headed for the angel's cabin. A lone candle stood by the porch again, marking the stairs in the dark, and they followed that direction until reaching their destinations.  
"Get a couple hours of rest," Chuck told them.

Castiel brushed through the beaded curtain and disappeared inside. Dean tried to figure out what to say and if there was anything about the arrangments of contacting and keeping in touch with the base that still needed to be clarified, but there was nothing. He nodded and was just about to go back in when Castiel returned, holding a basket.  
Ceremoniously he handed the basket to Chuck.  
"One last thing," he spoke in a determined tone of voice.

Chuck looked down and gulped.

"You can't be serious," he muttered, "Did you parents ever tell you not to take pets if you can't take care of them, Cas?"

Castiel let out a dismissive huff.

"There's always been an exception to that rule, though," Dean grimaced, halfway through the curtain with some beads trapped in his closed fist, "Impossible circumstances, for example."

"Make sure he's not eaten by a fox," Castiel added, "or a cougar or any other imaginable predator out there."

"And _do not_ rename him," Dean laughed, releasing the beads after him, "because it's Lucifer for luck."

He left his shoes by the door before entering the main room. Sam sat by the wall with a candle in front of him, swaying a little, holding his hand over half his face. Dean walked over to him and sat down next to him and he jumped slightly, as if he hadn't even heard Dean approaching.  
"Hey there Sammy."

The younger hesitated.  
"Hey," he finally said, his voice rough like it had been unused for a while, "You got everything ready?"

"Yeah," Dean confirmed, rubbing his tired neck, "As soon as it's light, we'll get going."

"How... how late is it?"  
  
"Pretty late. You should try to get some sleep, Sam."

Sam raised his eyes up to Dean. They were unfocused and surrounded by purple-tinted shadows.  
"I've been dozing off," he replied, "I can't sleep for longer than a few moments tops, but... it's something, right?"  
  
Dean didn't know what to say to that. He shifted, laid his hands against the floor and peered into Sam's eyes, barely hearing the sounds of Castiel returning indoors and closing the door behind him. The angel stopped to take a look at them both, Dean knew it by the brief silence as he entered the room, but then continued on to the kitchenette for a glass of water. He didn't wish them a good night before walking right past them and landing heavily on the bed, now clean of all unnecessarities. Dean couldn't hear him after he'd pulled up the blanket and wrapped himself up in it.  
  
The older brother had now taken his time figuring out how to reply, and he still had no words for Sam.  
With a weary sigh he leaned back and glanced at the colourful window now painted with the night's colours. Sam followed his gaze for a moment before turning his head down again.  
"I'm seeing things, Dean," he said after an even longer while had passed.   
The fine hair on the back of Dean's neck stood up. These conversations... he didn't know how to put up with them. They tuned him for an immediate defensive stance, made him eager to lash out for no reason at all - _pull your shit together. Stop being weak, Sam. Just ignore it, Sam. It's not real._  

"Things, like...?" 

Sam shrugged.  
"This is the third time you came back indoors. You never left, you just always came back." 

Dean raised a brow.  
"Okay, that's weird. Anything else?" 

The younger's eyes flashed towards the window. He cocked his head towards it and grimaced.  
"Broke once. Lucifer was there. He'd found me - then he was inside, hung me up on the wall. Found myself back on the floor and the window was good. Then there was a black cat here, just sort of strolling around and... being a cat - just that it creeped the living hell out of me, something about it was just wrong. Half the time I don't know if I'm awake or not." 

"And when you're sleeping?" 

A faint smile appeared on Sam's face.  
"It's kind of all black for a while. I guess I'm just so exhausted. Worst is that I don't really just fall asleep or wake up - I enter the midstage, the sleep paralysis, every time. Like my body forgot how to do it properly. You've had that, I know. Unable to move or do anything, seeing things and hearing things?" 

"Yeah," Dean confirmed, "I know what that is."  
He thought through the situation, but his mind was clouded by his own exhaustion, so not much came out of it.  
"The sleep part sounds good though. No nightmares, just rest." 

Sam nodded slowly.  
"Dean?" he spoke soon after. 

"Yeah?"  
  
When he raised his head again, he had a sort of a joking grin on his lips. Surprisingly it reached up to his eyes as well, bringing back the usual glimmer to them.  
"How the hell are we going to sleep on the road? We'll be three, if you haven't noticed. Two's good. We've been like that forever, the seats make good beds. But three, Dean - how the hell do we fit in?" 

Dean chuckled. He scratched his head, frowned, chuckled again and shrugged.  
"No idea," he admitted, "I guess we just take turns driving, clear up some remote houses for temp bases and if it gets to that, either someone fits his ass between the seats or we have to sleep on top of each other. I don't see many more options here. It's not like we can just go outside either. But hey, it's still going to be a while - first things first and so on. We still have one thing to do before we drive long distances." 

Sam nodded. He still smiled, if weakly and less happily now.  
"Yeah. Bobby's. Can't wait."  
His voice had a healthy dose of sarcasm to it. 

"Me neither." 

*

 

Dawn broke as cloudy as the day before, the first light of the day only illuminating a uniform ceiling of white above them. Dean stirred - he'd slept on the floor with Sam on spread blankets and pillows in the scent of incenses and cat hair, waking up every now and then either to calm his batshit brother down when he freaked out over whichever trick his mind was playing on him or to find his nose runny and spreading goo all over his face due to the amounts of animal dust he breathed in.  
Still, he felt reasonably rested when they shared the last breakfast at the camp with Chuck, who'd come to make sure they were up and ready to go. The car was nearby, so it didn't take them all too long to reach it. Unexpectedly, Lotus was there waiting for them, and she hung herself all over Sam at sight. The younger brother didn't mind her and returned her embrace, his arms trembling and face buried in her hair. Dean watched them and hated himself for everything he'd ever thought about them, all he'd said about Lotus, and everything he'd pushed on her. She genuinely cared about Sam, and everyone who did and made Sam happy, well, they deserved more than what Dean had ever given this girl.   
He pulled open the car's door and wondered how the new Impala would perform on her first real test - most of his worries were now aimed at the gas tank. He'd never really played an inventor before with cars, and even though he'd put his best to the task, he wasn't sure if he'd done it right. However, if it would fail, it would be a personal loss at most. They would find another car, and nearly anything would perform better than the Impala, so he'd just have to suck it up and accept the upgrade. For now, however, he enjoyed knowing they were going out together.   
  
During the night, Castiel had asked if he should drive his jeep, but Dean had shot the idea down. How many gallons of gas could they possibly drag around? Not enough for two cars. On top of that, how many drivers could they afford? Bringing two cars would mean they wouldn't have a spare up for driving when the two of them were both exhausted, which would mean cutting half the time they could spend moving and not moving meant tripling the risk they took.  
As convenient as it would have been, it wasn't worth it in the long run. They'd have to be fast, and to be fast, they couldn't cut anything in half.  
The Impala was the only exception he was making to his laws of survival and as he'd already decided, even that was hardly set in stone.   
At one point or another, he'd started developing a will to survive, an actual desire to live and fight. That was more than he'd ever expected to gain from this fool's effort. 

He slammed the door shut behind him and placed his hands upon the wheel. He ran his fingers along it, momentarily annoyed at the coarse bandage still protecting his burn, but then Castiel opened up the other door and claimed the front seat by placing his bag on the floor in front of it, and all that was wiped off his mind.  
He turned to complain, but never got the chance.  
  
"Sam needs to sleep."  
The words interrupted him before he'd even opened up his mouth. 

"Sam's slept on the shotgun before, Cas. Throw that in the back." 

Castiel eyed him amusedly but didn't budge.  
"No. I'm quite sure he'd appreciate a whole seat to lay down on right now."   
Before Dean had the chance to challenge that, Sam appeared on the side of the angel and, without a word, crawled on the backseat. 

"I told you so," Castiel said, finally sitting down himself.   
Dean shrugged.  
"Fine. Are we good?" 

"We're good," Sam confirmed exhaustedly.

"Right. Chuck's probably at the gate already. Let's go."  
The car woke up with what felt like a shiver running through its metal body. Dean drove it on towards the front gate trying his best to ignore the way Sam stared out the window - he looked positively torn on top of his already sickly appearance, each making the other look much worse than they would on their own. Castiel had ridden himself of his shoes and pulled his feet on the seat, and that was one of the things Dean didn't know whether he should allow or not, so he gave it a pass for now.  
  
Chuck had indeed reached the gate before them and he pushed it open with a serious look on his face as they approached. He barely lifted a hand in farewell. As a seal to their dispatchment, he locked the padlock on the gates behind the car's rear. They weren't coming back ever again as far as any of them could foresee.  
They were still officially a part of the camp's garrison, members of the survivors team, but now that they were out, they were considered in a temporary state of dead-while-alive; temporary until that state would be traded off for the permanence of dead-and-decaying. To everyone but a couple responsible behind those fences, they were already dead. Chuck, Jack and Adam would have to consider them alive until further notice and by the manner Dean had read Lotus, she would as well. That was it. They left behind one person who missed any of them, the rest merely felt obliged to assist in ways that were within their comfort zones. Nobody would go out of their way to get them anything. They were an unfortunate burden, soldiers sent out to die worth little to anyone, not even themselves.  
Dean couldn't decide whether that was a good or a bad thing nor whether it made him feel free or burdened. 

The forest was alive around them with birds charging off the trees and back again all around them, some startled by the sounds of the car and others merely going about their daily lives. Sam had fallen asleep before they reached the concrete road and took a turn to the direction that would eventually bring them to Sioux Falls. Dean had estimated the drive time to be around twelve, thirteen hours under best conditions - best conditions most likely did not apply, but he insisted on remaining positive. Years ago a trip like this would have taken him six, up to eight hours max, but he didn't know which roads were open and which were guarded, nor did he know the condition of those he would end up driving on. He didn't know if they'd have anywhere to fill up for gas, and if yes, how long it'd take to do that. If not, of course, they did have their stocks. But those were stocks for a reason - the reason was they couldn't count on being able to buy anything, anywhere, or to steal much either. Gas in most abandoned cars was watered down and the vast majority of gas stops were out of order or robbed empty. There were few that were, in fact, in business still, but those were heavily guarded and all of them restricted. Dean had bribed his way in to at least five during the last eight months but truth was that they didn't have much to bribe with at this stage.  
And of course, the chance still remained they'd encounter patrols or packs of rabid croats. Neither sounded like fast travel, and both should be avoided at all costs, which in turn would cost them extra time.  
So, twelve hours to Sioux Falls. He could still make the drive alone. 

"This is exciting," Castiel said at some point, after perhaps fifteen minutes along the paved road. 

"Exciting?" Dean repeated, taking his eyes off the road for long enough to give the other a throughoutly weirded out stare. 

The angel nodded, smiling.  
"It's been a while since I last set out to do anything meaningful," he clarified, "Feels almost like I've been gifted with my grace. Almost. Of course, I'm still weak, useless and worthless, but I do have the illusion of purpose to excuse my existence for a while longer now." 

"Stop with the self-pity," Dean responded crudely, speeding now that they'd reached a stretch of road that wasn't ruined, "and whining."  
He felt the older's fingers tracing his thigh and then the warmth of his palm settling over the top, resting there with a single finger slowly caressing the inner thigh. Grudgingly, Dean allowed it.  
  
"How long 'til we're there?" 

"I'd estimate around eleven, twelve hours. Could take longer than that, though. I've no idea how the roads are these days, last went up there a long while ago." 

"The doppelgänger made it here just fine, so I'd figure the way's at least mostly open and good to drive." 

Dean nodded.  
"I sure do hope so," he muttered, slowing down again to avoid a bump. 

"He had a terrible car, too. We should be fine." 

Dean nodded again. He didn't know what kind of a car the past him had driven, he hadn't cared. Someone had confiscated it and put it to better use afterwards, that much he did know.

"Will you let me drive this thing, too?" Castiel asked in a moment. 

Dean chuckled, caressing the wheel absently with one hand.  
"No," he simply said. 

Castiel let out a dramatic, long sigh.  
"I'll just have to wait, then." 

"Yup. The rights to my baby are earned, not handed out. Prove your worth first."

Castiel rolled his eyes, Dean saw it from the corner of his vision. He grinned, turning the rear window to point more towards Sam - he doubted they'd have many cars he'd need to keep an eye out for through that, so he could as well put it to better use. The younger seemed to be asleep already, which was a good thing and something he hadn't expected after witnessing first hand in what condition the other was in. Castiel peered at him, too, but only in the passing. He soon settled back to watching the road, humming a tune just loudly enough for Dean to hear it. His voice sounded comforting and relaxing. 

"What song is that?" he finally asked, finding himself unable to identify the tune. 

"A religious folk tune from the dark ages, mainly popular among small farming communities across various southern European countries." 

"Oh."

He hadn't really expected an answer like that and now he had nothing left to add to the conversation. Castiel went on humming. The melody suddenly had something of an eerie aspect to it now that Dean knew it had last been sang by people centuries dead.


	41. Guard Dogs and Part-Time Prostitutes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck surprisingly much at keeping a schedule, especially considering I have some 150 pages stacked up unpublished so it's not even like I have to WORK to get this thing here. Oh well.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

In four hours, their chosen highway had lead them on a rough patch of road that stretched on for what seemed like forever. The surface was bumpy enough to give Dean a semi-permanent expression of pain and terror as he tried to navigate their delicate car through the worst parts, which, for what it was worth, covered the majority of the way. At the edge of a rather murky-looking forest he finally called it for the while and parked the car. Sam was still fast asleep or perhaps just unconscious, it hardly mattered as long as he wouldn't wake up in twenty minutes and demand a break to take a leak. Castiel leaned over the seat to try and wake him up but he merely grunted and kept sleeping - with a silent look at one another, the fallen angel and the older brother decided to simply leave him there and hope for the best.  
They exited the car and wandered off to the shade of the trees, ending up leaning onto the same tree on the opposite sides to relieve themselves. Dean leaned the back of his head to the warm bark and listened to the birds in the trees.

"To be honest with you," he said conversationally as he closed his zipper and pulled his shirt over the front of his jeans again, "I expected this to be harder."  
  
"Hear you," Castiel replied.  
Dean was adjusting the holster around his thigh when he walked past and a few feet further into the forest.  
"It's quiet enough."

Dean raised his eyes and examined Castiel, then the forest around them. Then he shrugged.  
"On the croat front anyway."

"On all humanoid fronts."

"Yeah. What did you expect, though?" the younger huffed and followed the older back towards the car, "A market? Traffic jams?"  
  
"An army."

"Oh."  
Dean scratched his head and picked off a stray spider that had somehow ended up crawling over his shirt as he'd walked through the bushes.  
"Well, I guess I did too."

He slid his hand along the dimmed surface of the Impala's hood, wondering if he'd ever see it as shiny as it had once been, before pulling himself on it to sit. He didn't feel like driving just yet, his shoulders already felt stiff from just the drive up here. Before Castiel had the chance to haul his ass on the hood, Dean stopped him by laying his hand over the angel's chest.  
"Give me a massage."

Castiel raised a brow at him with a skeptical look on his face. Dean brushed his cheek, grinning.  
"Baby, you know you want to," he taunted the male.  
His grin wasn't affected by the manner in which Castiel rolled his eyes.  
  
"I really think I don't," the angel replied simply.

"But I know you do."  
With that, Dean had slid off the hood and onto the ground, bending his neck invitingly. He stretched it to every direction and rubbed at his own shoulder in a pained manner with a low, soft sound slipping past his lips.  
Behind him, Castiel settled on his knees on the grass growing wild right over the tracks they were following, sighing dramatically before placing his warm hands over Dean's shoulders.

"You owe me for this."  
  
"I owe you for a lot of things," Dean murmured as he leaned into the touch and tried to relax.  
From this angle, the car was quite large, almost threatening as they sat in front of the wide metal bumper glittering faintly in sunlight. 

"Don't you think you should start paying me back already?"  
Castiel's fingers pressed into his flesh just strongly enough to get him to relax into his touch, softening the muscles ever so slightly as the blood started flowing faster in them again.

"I would if you asked me for things, Cas. Don't you think it's a little hard to return favours when you don't know what those favours are in the first place?"  
  
The angel chuckled cynically.  
"You could start by blowing me," he said then, his voice just as cynical as his faint laughter had been, "I've estimated that giving me oral one more time would help you a lot at shortening the debt you've burdened yourself with."

Dean's eyes strayed towards the forest again. His mind had slipped on tracks his body was eager to follow with unwanted erotic responses.  
"Does our sex really work on debt, Cas?"

"We're nothing but whores, Dean, I think we established that earlier. Since cash isn't very valuable anymore, we, as part-time prostitutes, exchange favours instead, and yes, you're running a debt on that record." 

"You make the whole deal sound a crapload less appealing than it is."  
  
"To you," Castiel corrected, and Dean heard the half-smile on his face, "although I don't strictly deny enjoying our misadventures in the art of lovemaking." 

"You don't 'strictly deny' - do you deny?" 

The chuckle Castiel let out next was much less ironic than the first one.  
"No, I guess I do enjoy them quite a bit. I'm merely trying to imply that I believe you could still offer me much more than you've so far allowed yourself to offer. I have faith in your will to please me, too."

His palms pressed into the tight, tense trapeziuses on both sides of Dean's neck, causing a borderline painful sensation of stretching at the base of his skull. The younger let out a faint sound, momentarily sidetracked from their conversation that was growing less and less appealing to him with each passing moment.  
"You know what, Cas?"

"Yes?"

Dean shivered, entirely against his will, as the older pressed his fingers right into a spot that was particularly uncomfortable for him, relieving the tension instantly like he'd put a spell on it. His lips parted and he sighed, allowing his eyes to close.  
"I liked you better when you whined less." 

"Do you want me to change my tactic?"  
  
"Yes. Definitely, yes."

He didn't expect the lips on his freshly reawakened neck. The softness and the special texture of them made him jump and caught his breath somewhere uncomfortable, causing him to draw in air so that he nearly choked on it.  
Castiel laughed.  
His palm slid off Dean's shoulder and right under his shirt, fingertips trailing his suddenly erect nipple with teasing gentleness. 

" _Not now, you idiot_ ," Dean growled, pushing back against him in a direct contradiction to what he'd spoken. 

"Nothing's ever good for you, is it, Dean Winchester."

"No. But I'd enjoy your hand back where it was a second ago, thank you so very much."

 

*

 

Sam shifted. He felt the Impala underneath him, but he also felt cold and his body ached, and each and every roar of the engine combined with the motion of the car itself as it ran along the bumpy road made him feel more and more in pain. He opened his eyes, scanning the familiar roof above him, but nothing he felt or saw could make him forget the _need_ he felt, the craving that ruled over all his other sensations and thoughts and prevented him from making a sound. It was as if he was nailed to the seat, too heavy to move, too angry to think; he was being _denied_ what he _needed_ , he had to get out, had to have it one way or another, nothing else mattered - _nothing else mattered.  
_ His heartbeat was like a war drum beating mercilessly inside his body and with each of its thundering sounds, his ears echoed it double. He could feel his blood boiling when he pulled himself up and grabbed something, uncertain of what, and his vision blackened - something held him down - the car did something, he fell down again, hit the side of his head to the bench, something _still_ held him down, and he gasped for air.  
When his vision cleared, Castiel was on top of him, holding him by the throat and shoulder, with Dean looking back at the two of them from his seat. The car was still, its engine still running until Dean's hand twisted the key and the car shook with a warm purr before turning still.

He was panting - he had no idea what was going on. He still hurt. Castiel's skin burned his everywhere they touched, and the blue of his eyes seemed electrified and intense. Sam answered his challenging stare, confused and entirely unsure of what had happened a second before. How had the car halted? Had he done something? He had to have done something. His stomach twisted and he let out a pained yelp, attempting to curl up in agony, but Castiel's body prevented him from moving at all.  
  
Dean scoffed.  
"Cas, I've never seen anyone cross the seat that fast. Sammy, you okay?"

"No," Sam replied, gasping.  
Castiel's grip on his shoulder relieved - it was there he'd actually put his weight onto, the hand on Sam's throat was merely a means to keep him from fighting.  
"What - what did I do?" 

The angel laid his hand on the seat and fell off the back of the one he was still half-lying on top of. His knee hit the floor of the car and he examined Sam worriedly.  
"You pulled up too fast. Tried to grab the seat, you looked like you were about to attack Dean."

"Oh." 

"I pushed you back down, Dean stopped the car, I don't know how I ended up here -"  
  
"You jumped him the moment he reached for me, Cas," Dean laughed, but his voice was startled, thin, "Like a freaking guard dog."

Sam reached to rub at his temples. He was sweating, trembling and his lips burned like he'd rubbed them for a longer while with fresh chili. He pulled himself up and leaned against the side of the car, trying to control the spasming of his muscles and the frantic beating of his heart. Outside the window, he saw shapes, and he could hear someone laughing, but he blocked both those sensations from his mind after checking twice the reactions from first Dean's, then Castiel's face. They would have reacted if they were surrounded, or if anyone laughed. Then he gagged, slammed a hand over his mouth and curled up. Instinctively, Castiel had moved off from the immediate line of fire in case he'd hurl, but he didn't, and in a moment the fallen angel laid a hand on his shoulder to calm him down.

 "How - how far are we?" Sam asked weakly.

Dean checked his wrist - he had no watch but the habit remained. From there on his eyes strayed to the sky above and he shrugged.  
"Half way, three fifths at most. Do you need something?"  
The older turned to face him, worried.  
"Water, food, anything that's not red and dripping?"

"Don't... don't make me think of it," Sam uttered anxiously, feeling himself fall pale in response to the images in his mind. 

Castiel sighed and turned to dig into the bag next to which he'd fallen. He pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to Sam.  
"Drink. You're dehydrated." 

Sam didn't want to, but they were both staring at him demandingly, so he did it just to get them to calm down. His legs continued trembling and he felt nauseous and dizzy. Water did nothing to satiate his thirst, and neither would anything else.  
He laid the bottle between his legs and buried his head in his hands, shaking.   
"Drive, Dean," he muttered. 

Castiel moved to sit next to him. Sam was surprised to feel his fingers on the back of his hand, but in the end didn't stop him from grabbing it and holding it when Dean started the car. He concentrated on the warmth of the older's skin and tried to hold his thoughts together. At least he'd slept - it might be the last time he would for a very long while.  
"If you kiss," Dean's voice carried through the haze that covered Sam's world, "I'm going to be the one throwing up, and I'll make sure it lands on both of you."


	42. On Dead Men and Disappearing Doors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was laughing way, way too hard at this chapter while editing. What the hell was I on when I wrote this?

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ 

Dusk started falling upon them, but the roads had turned better the closer they got to the highways the government guarded. Around these safeways, people gathered to live on the edges of the strictly controlled society, half-independent and half-protected, whichever fit them and the government best. Their gas stations worked well as long as the three of them looked like they weren't outsiders, and while Dean and Castiel passed somewhat well, Sam just had to be buried in a couple layers of blankets and some bags each time they stopped for gas.

The younger didn't complain. Dean suspected being hidden from view gave him some comfort, the stillness of air without the movement of the car as well as the warmth and lack of light under there was probably a relief for him in his current state. Still, he did look rather comical, or would have looked if Dean could have stopped worrying about his condition. On the last stop they intended to make, Sam did laugh at it himself. He looked a little better after managing to eat a little with them.  
  
Castiel used his charm to trade them a local set of travel permits, something they really did need to not get in trouble with the military. Dean didn't want to know whether he'd actually traded them for something or just sucked the guy off but chose to believe the former rather than the latter for the sake of his own peace of mind. The uncertainty gnawed at the back of his mind all the way up to South Dakota, however, because he'd never seen Castiel carrying anything when he'd disappeared in the back room for some odd fifteen minutes.

The surroundings of Sioux Falls made Dean feel even worse than the thought of his angel blowing a random dude for permits. His chest was a hollow aching void like someone had reached in and pulled out his heart, taking most his ribcage along with it perhaps by accident, and so he kept sinking in on himself and tensing up to protect the opening that hadn't yet bled his shirts wet. He glanced around continuously like he was expecting a pack of deer to charge at them from both directions at any given moment, and he kept slowing down the closer they got like someone had _announced_ the deer were in fact actually coming. Castiel had moved back on the front seat and occasionally gave him strange looks. Sam was silent on his back, his eyes sometimes open and sometimes closed, and if open, they stared ahead just as blind as they would have been if covered by his lids still.  
Stars were lighting up the velvet skies above, and no city lights in the horizon brought any glow to the skyline after the sun had set. There was no moon in the sky either, or at least Dean didn't see it anywhere, not even the black circle marking its shadow amongst the bright white lights that dotted the dark in its absence.

He'd expected to be tired when the car slid along the overgrown path to Singer Salvage Yard. The piles of cars were rustier than ever, and the air was heavy with their smell when Castiel opened the door and slipped out of the Impala. He took a couple steps before pulling out his gun - just a precaution, as he didn't even bother to lift it up. The grounds seemed clear.  
Dean turned in his seat and stretched to nudge Sam, whose eyes opened slowly. He appeared to have trouble focusing his gaze on anything.  
"We're here, baby brother."

"When... when did it go dark?" Sam replied incoherently.

Dean shrugged.  
"It's been a while now. C'mon, take the stuff from there, me and Cas will carry the rest."  
He turned again, opened the door and held his breath as he stepped out of the car. He was back here - back in a place he'd once regarded as something akin to home. Bobby's house seemed clean enough. It wasn't in a state of disrepair like he'd expected, although it did mostly look abandoned and cold now.

"Cas, come help me unload the car."

"Roger that."

They took out everything - the heavy weapon bags, the clothes, even the dirty blanket from the bottom. They couldn't afford to lose any of that, not now when they didn't know what was in store for them, and heavily burdened all three of them started for the house. They crossed the yard, stepping as quiet as they could on the path leading up to the porch. The stairs creaked when they settled upon them. The door, curiously enough, was locked.

"Sam?"  
  
Sam laid his bags on the porch and sat down, fingers lost in his long hair. Dean dropped what he'd carried and walked over to him, kneeling next to one of the bags he'd laid down. It was Dean's own, and he needed the key from there somewhere, knowing he'd packed it but not certain where exactly. Castiel waited quietly.  
After a brief, clumsy unpacking and repacking, Dean straightened up again with the key in his hand. He walked back to the door like a man approaches the electric chair that'll end his life, pushed the key into the keyhole, twisted, and swallowed thickly as the lock clicked open. The door opened with a creak. Dean exchanged looks with Castiel, and they both drew their weapons, moving in to secure the entrance before taking Sam and their equipment in. The ground level was clear, so they took the bags indoors. Sam followed them on weak legs as they secured the upper floors as well, stopping every now and then to listen for potential signs of other inhabitants. Nothing carried up to their ears.

It was only when they'd decided it was safe to secure the basement that things started turning strange. Firstly, there was no door leading up to the basement at all. There was a bookcase where the door had been, and behind it, there was a big fat case of nothing. A wall stood there, innocuous and entirely unsuspicious to any eyes that had not witnessed the thick door leading down to the basement that had indeed once stood where the wall now towered. Dean knocked at it - nothing. The entrance had been shut and it had been shut well. He turned to Sam with an expression of pure confusion, but Sam stared back at him entirely uninterested like the whole thing didn't surprise him at all; in fact, he appeared not only unsurprised but like it was commonplace for doors to turn into walls in abandoned buildings and that this was no more of a big deal than a spring dawning after the winter's cold had passed. Dean gave up and looked at Castiel instead, but the angel had already turned to look for alternatives.  
The eldest approached the knocked-over wheelchair and kneeled in front of it for a while, then stood up again and started walking along the walls like Dean had done for a moment before. He knew there'd been another entrance, a trap door, but he didn't remember just where it was, just that it was in front of a door, and there were quite a few of those in Bobby's house.

At first, Sam tried to make himself useful, but he soon grew tired of it and the more tired he got, the more pissed off he seemed to be, and from the way he kept wincing and jumping at nothing in particular Dean realised he was heading right for the worst phase, and that they really did need to find the trap door as soon as possible.  
When he was standing in front of the kitchen, finally over his melancholy and regret as the pressuring need to find that damn entrance pushed everything else aside, there was a sudden loud clicking sound that his mind immediately recognised as the sound of a shotgun prepared for the shot. He ducked, just in time for the shot to blow past him to the kitchen cupboard, scattering wood and salt in every direction.

"The hell are _you_ lot doing here? Did the camp burn down? By hell almighty, go book yourself a hostel somewhere frickin' else, boys, this isn't a public venue."

Dean raised his head, one hand reaching for the gun he'd stupidly let out of his grasp as he'd covered from the shot. He couldn't really think straight. The voice - he knew it, but he was too confused to recognise it before he saw the woman it belonged to, and even then he had little idea just from _where_ he knew this woman. A second ticked by while he tried to decide whether he should shoot or duck.  
"Sheriff?" he finally breathed out, gathering himself and raising his hands over his head just in case that'd make her reconsider the second shot.

The woman cocked her head and huffed. Yes, that was it; she'd been the sheriff of Sioux Falls at one point, they'd briefly seen her a couple times passing through, and Bobby had mentioned her on occasion. Castiel was aiming his handgun at her from behind, but he was clearly unwilling to take the shot. Dean motioned him to lower his gun. He couldn't see Sam anywhere.

"You ain't supposed to be here, boys, so move along."

Sam's voice carried from somewhere nearby Castiel: he was hidden from Dean's sight by the door's frame.  
"Sheriff... Mills? Jody Mills?" he filled in for Dean, just as surprised as he'd been.

"Yeah, yeah, good that you know my name. Now do you still understand English or shall I repeat the orders in Cantonese instead?"

"That would be unnecessary, as we definitely don't speak Cantonese," Castiel interfered.  
He pushed his gun back to its holster and walked up to Jody, who looked at him with an expression of intense distrust.  
"I am Castiel, former angel of the Lord, these days mostly a lawless renegade fighting the war with peace and love - although I'm confident you've heard of me, I don't believe we've ever been formally introduced."

The fallen angel held his hand out with a smile on his face. Sheriff Mills stared at his hand like she'd never seen a friendly gesture in her entire life, but finally let go of the shotgun with one hand to shake Castiel's. The angel, with a single swift movement, disarmed her and topped the move with a deep bow. He stepped aside to smile apologetically - the sheriff rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.  
"Should've seen that one comin'."  
  
She stayed still for a moment, eyes focused on Castiel; she examined him in a scanner-like fashion, perhaps expecting to see something special in him, but Castiel looked like anyone else. He'd always looked like anyone else, even back when he still had his halo intact.  
  
Dean sighed, finally standing up properly.

He returned his gun to his belt and leaned over to the table, uncertain as to how to react to the new development.  
"Sheriff?" he then said, figuring it was best to tell the truth, "I don't know what the hell you're doing here, but we need to get to the basement of this house. Bobby had a - a special room. We _need_ that room, and we're not leaving."

Jody licked her lips anxiously.  
"Oh boy, this is going to turn ugly," she muttered.  
Her eyes turned to Dean and she measured him, too; finally she seemed to decide arguing wasn't going to benefit her.  
"Give me a minute."

"Not so fast, Sheriff," he spoke and nodded at Castiel, who stepped forwards and pulled out a silver knife from his belt.  
They weren't letting a potential enemy off the hook without making sure first: the woman looked almost bored as she held out her arms, apparently knowing full well what they were up to.

 

*

She wasn't a demon, a shapeshifter or any other imaginable form of supernatural evil either, and after a brief but just as heated argument, they allowed her to go off on her own once she'd promised it wouldn't take her long and it would get them what they needed.  
Her one minute turned tenfold, during which Sam had fallen into a creaky chair by the kitchen table and buried his head in his hands and stopped talking and reacting to anything but his own imagination, which sometimes caused him to jump unexpectedly or mutter replies to voices Castiel or Dean couldn't hear.  
The remaining two stood by the sink and attempted conversation quite scarcely, mostly to drown Sam's monologue out but once because they were starting to think it might be time to go after Jody if she wasn't coming back on her own. They'd heard a distant clanging sound and assumed the general direction of the basement's new entrance was there - the chances of them finding it, however, remained small.

Just when Dean had pushed himself off the counter behind him and had already taken a step to go after the woman, they heard the sound again, and then a strange creaking sound that continued until Sheriff Mills came back in sight.

"Boys, don't shoot, he's very real," she simply said, then stepped aside.

After her, two shoes entered the view, framed like a fine painting by the kitchen's doorway. They were up from the floor, surrounded by two large wheels - above them were two jean-covered legs, and though the jeans were ragged, they were well washed. Further followed a brown jacket over a plaid shirt. Dean swallowed. He had eyes for nothing but the man that came into his view, turned around on the wheelchair and faced them.

"Just when I thought I'd made sure the lot of you would never, ever enter my premises again," Bobby Singer grunted.  
He eyed Castiel and Sam's back, ignored Dean and lowered his cap.

Dean was already halfway through the kitchen - his footsteps sounded like thunder to his ears, and so did his heartbeat. He collapsed in front of the man and gripped his shoulders, looked into his eyes with the expression of utter disbelief, his voice stolen from him along with all coherent thoughts.  
"How - how?" he choked, stupified, gaping.

Finally, Bobby turned to look at him, and his expression was warm if not a little amused by the reaction he'd caused. He was clearly pleased with his entry and its dramatic value, and for once, Dean didn't feel insulted at all. He couldn't - the only emotions he had the capacity for were relief and wonder and the growing need to pull out a gun and shoot relentlessly.

"Did y'all really think me _dead_? Who _are_ you?" Bobby growled, adjusting his cap again, "Takes a damn lot more than an apocalypse to get me killed, I tell you that."

He huffed and grunted and gripped Dean by the shirt, pulling him up.  
"Stand up you idjit, no use getting your knees all dirty crawling on my floors like that, dammit."

"But... I _buried_ you."  
There was no good way to get that said - the words fell out of Dean's mouth like bits of lead, and they left behind a burn that he couldn't suppress.

"Yeah, sure you did. Do I look buried to you? Then I guess, you didn't."

Sam was shifting. Dean heard him and knew it was him - he didn't know how, but Sam's movements sounded different than Castiel's. That and Castiel was still standing further away for all Dean knew. He hadn't looked since crossing the room. He didn't _care_.  
"Bobby?" the younger brother stuttered, turning around in his chair.

"Yea, yea, and I guess you have a story for me too, boy. How about we stop chatting here where every damn bird can overhear and go down to the basement instead - after you've done what ya gotta do. And I ain't forgiving you lot if you skip the whole confirmation phase of our joyful reunion, so you better get to that right now. Though if I were a monster you'd be dead already. Jody, meanwhile, could you proof the damn door again?"

Sheriff Mills nodded.


	43. The Hideout

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Sam landed heavy on a chair. The basement had gone through some drastic renovations since the last time he'd been there: now it had a small kitchen, storage space, two entirely new rooms (one for the study, another for a new bedroom) and a sort of a living room that spanned the space that wasn't used for anything else. It reminded Sam of Castiel's cabin with the carpets covering the plain cold stone floor, and although they were less ornate, there were also some pillows laying about that looked like they were maybe used for seating. Out of the way, of course - Bobby needed a way through with his wheelchair. But they were there, regardless, and they made the space homely, if also a little unusual, almost oriental in decoration.

Dean was still recovering from the shock and even through the mist of his crumbling sanity Sam did feel a portion of what the older was clearly going through. Difference was, he hadn't buried Bobby. He hadn't really had the time to even accept the man was dead in the first place, and although he'd felt sad, he hadn't allowed himself the time to mourn. What was a resurrection to Dean was merely misinformation corrected for Sam.  
He held his head and clenched his jaw as a second Dean passed through the room, and he refused to listen to what he was saying and concentrated on the real deal instead.

_'He's not real, Sammy,_ I _am real. Can't you tell the difference?'_

Sam noticed he was tearing off dead skin from his lip trying to avoid the stare of his fake brother. Or perhaps the skin wasn't all that dead yet - he tasted blood.

"Okay, so... can you explain now?" the real Dean asked.  
He sat down next to Sam and Castiel wandered slowly to stand by his side. Bobby rolled effortlessly down the ramp - it was short enough to make his wheelchair collide with the floor once it ended, but he seemed perfectly used to that as well. He cleared his throat and moved in front of the table, examining them all in turn.

"I had to make sure you wouldn't come apologising," he finally started, "Too dangerous to travel the roads these days. No idea how you managed to come here - _thrice_ now, even - without getting shot on the way. Well, yeah, the body you buried was a shapeshifter. Shot it in the head through the mouth with a silver bullet and left it there as a con. Knew _someone_ would eventually drop by to check in and I have to say, for once you didn't disappoint."

Dean stared.  
"A _shapeshifter._ "

"A shapeshifter."  
  
"Of course."  
The older brother sounded almost disappointed.

Bobby sighed and shrugged.  
"Thought you wouldn't be fooled by something that simple, to be honest with ya. But your group didn't check and I guess that was the extra effort I needed to pass. I left the old wheelchair there and kept on building this base instead with Jody, Rufus and a couple others."

Sam's concentration faltered as the second Dean stepped in front of him, holding Ruby's knife in one hand and a phial of blood in the other.

_'I know what you want. You're nothing but a bloodsucking monster.'_

"Dean's right here. _You're_ not real."  
His voice was low, but it made everyone around him fall silent - everyone except the hallucination he'd tried to drive away.

Bobby's eyes were the pair that watched him with the most intensity. He felt naked and ten kinds of discomfortable under his stare and shifted, unable to look back at anyone.

"Sam's, uh... Long and incredibly weird story short - Sam needs to detox," Dean started clumsily, clearly uneager to discuss this and dying to know more about what Bobby had been up to while they'd thought he'd been dead, "Again."

_The anger will come_ , Sam heard himself thinking.  
 _He'll feel betrayed and angry._

The hallucination cackled and walked upstairs. He left a trail of blood after him - it smelled heavy, coppery and impure, and it took more than the majority of Sam's willpower to stop him from launching on the floor to lick the mirages off the carpet. He knew, consciously, that the blood wasn't real and therefore licking the floor would do him no good whatsoever, but _hell_... it smelled real enough. It looked real enough. What were the chances it _was_ real?  
  
Someone shook him. It was Dean, again, and Sam wasn't sure if he was real or not this time. He looked up at him in confusion, not quite knowing what was going on.  
"Sammy? Sam, get back to me. Sam. Can you hear me?"

"Y-yeah."

"Okay. Frickin' hell, Bobby, this is what I mean. He's _this_ close to flipping a lid. We drove all the way here to get him somewhere safe - somewhere... somewhere he can't escape or hurt himself or anybody else."

Jody leaned to the wall by the stairs. She brushed her somewhat oily hair back and sighed.  
"The panic room's full of, well, if I say 'everything' I'm not joking. It'll take a while to clean it up - if Bobby thinks that's the best idea."

Bobby scoffed.  
"The best idea is to send y'all right back where you came from, but..."  
He glanced at Sam looking worried and defeated.  
"I guess I have to offer you something better. Let's get to work."

*

The panic room truly was full of things. Piles of books formerly scattered across the whole house and now gathered there, tall enough to almost hit the ceiling; in the center, the room hosted mountains of equipment ranging from bags to weapons to tents to portable stoves to pans and kettles and rusty forks. Dean adopted a jacket - a plain green military jacket much like the one he already had, but this one was in top condition and thicker than the other. It would come in handy during the cold months, no matter where their slow motion kamikaze would take them.  
Sam helped as much as he could, which was very little; most the time he sat outside the room with Bobby, who oversaw the efforts and grew more and more frustrated with their supposed slowness, although Dean knew well what truly pissed him off.

He didn't really dare to talk to the older. He didn't know how to even begin to think of him now. All this time he'd thought him dead but there he was now, sitting in a shiny, expensive-looking wheelchair, and that wasn't even all. He looked relatively well groomed, wore clean clothes and smelled fresh. It was like Bobby Singer was the rare flower that flourished in these unforgiving times, and Dean couldn't for the love of it understand how or why.  
Even his mental state seemed to be better than when they'd last parted, as if time away from Dean had actually gotten him to cheer up somehow. Slowly, his mind processed the options to a very few that remained, and only one of them seemed plausible. He had a woman. That woman was in all likelihood Jody Mills. Dean didn't know what she was like, he only knew they'd not been in the best of terms before, if there was anything to say by the way Bobby had spoken of her. Despite a certain mutual respect, they'd likely hated one another. Things like that seemed to change with the end of the world.  
He wondered if she was a hunter like them now, or just a survivor; inevitably of course, Bobby had trained her in defense against supernatural forces. Whether or not that made her a hunter remained unclear for Dean, but in this day and age, the distinction had become less relevant. You either knew how to survive or you died - the gist of it remained very simple for everyone.

Castiel lingered close by to the older brother the whole time, as if he was a little nervous to get separated from him. He was quiet and aside polite responses to what was directly spoken to him he didn't open his mouth once. Dean wasn't sure if he felt uncomfortable or shy or if it was something else, but he noticed he didn't mind the angel's presence. It was comforting to have a good friend by his side, someone he felt connected to in the less than appealing situation he was in. He didn't know what to say either, so he didn't say anything.  
  
When the room was cleared and the things formerly stored inside it spread across the floor of the rest of the space, littering corners in large heaps and piles and stretching across the carpeted ground like rocks in the wilderness, Bobby threw in a mattress and declared it good enough to go. Dean picked up a pillow and a rugged-looking blanket and added them in. While Jody fetched water, Sam had already settled in the room, sitting on the mattress looking pale and utterly indifferent to what happened around him, the expression on his face altering between pained and desperate to perfectly, inhumanely blank.  
Dean went in and kneeled in front of the man, lifting a hand to press against the side of his jaw. The younger raised his eyes up to him and looked, his mood seeming to settle on so deep a depression it hurt the shorter to see. Despite that, he forced a smile on his lips and let go of his brother's face, chuckling.  
"Okay then, Sammy. You know the drill."

Sam examined him slowly and didn't respond. Dean took his hand instead.  
"In a few days you'll be better. We'll be right there and won't leave you alone. When it's done, we'll be right back in business and you'll be better than ever, right? Just - just concentrate on that. It's like it won't even happen at all. Just a couple days and you're just fine."

His tone of voice could have fooled him, but he knew it didn't fool Sam. The confident positivity of his words was a clumsy mask to hide the fear and the sadness at what had to be done. And it wasn't just for Sam, either. He feared he upcoming days because of what he'd have to live through himself. Worse yet, they had no guarantee as to whether what he said was even true to begin with. They'd never gotten the chance to find out if Sam truly could even detox from this in the first place, or if it'd kill him: the general, mostly unspoken consensus was that his chances of recovery were slightly smaller than those of him dying in the process, but what choice did they have? The tainted blood was poison to Sam - it didn't only change his abilities, and it wasn't power alone that twisted his mind. The more he drank it, the less human he became.

_You'll never become a monster again. Not on my watch._

Dean's expression had turned worried as he looked at the man's paper white skin - the red blotches over his face looked like he'd cried or someone had struck him hard on both cheeks, and the features of his skull stuck out unnaturally from underneath the somehow stretched skin that seemed like it had grown smaller and was unfitting for Sam to wear.  
The younger turned his eyes down and grabbed Dean's arm, his palm sweaty and cold.

"Make sure nothing - _nothing_ \- gets me out this time, Dean," he spoke, his voice trembling and faltering but the tone of it so pressing it didn't leave much of a choice.

Dean smiled, but his smile felt dead on his face.  
"No, Sammy, this time around we'll do it right."

He heard Jody's light footsteps entering the room. The woman kneeled next to them, bringing in a jug of water and the excuse for a chamber pot. However briefly she looked at the taller brother, Dean caught the look and saw she was, if not afraid, then at least extremely cautious about Sam. The look on her made something break inside the older, and he grabbed Sam's shoulder to get him to look at him again.  
"I'll be right there, Sammy. I won't leave you alone."

A hint of a smile crossed the younger's features.  
"I know," he said.

When Dean left the room, Sam rose up after him and came to the door - his steps were weak and his balance was off, so when he reached the wall, he laid both hands on it and leaned to the door's frame, looking at Bobby.  
"Do you have a phone?" he asked, and for a moment, Dean wondered if he was already delirious enough to make no sense.

Bobby eyed him and scoffed.  
"Of course I have a phone," he growled, "what are you gonna do with it, order pizza?"

Sam smiled again, but it lasted maybe half a second only before he fell almost doubled over and grimaced. It took him a second to recover.  
"No," he finally said, breathless from pain, "I just needed to know I'll be able to make a call... when I'm done."

Bobby, clearly unthinking, exchanged looks with Dean. The moment they both realised what they'd done seemed to stop the time, and then they both turned their heads away so fast that doing so hurt Dean's neck, as if they could somehow erase the moment from having existed by removing themselves from it as vigorously as they humanely could.  
"Okay, boy, mind on the matter and not on the 'morrow. First you get clean and then you make your phonecalls."

Sam nodded again. He watched them until the heavy iron door had closed on him. Dean's chest felt like it was full of lead - his brain was equally filled with uninvited thoughts. If they'd die, Sam would starve to death in there.  
He made a discomfortable sound and turned around, heading for the ramp. They simply needed not to die, then.

"Where are you going, son?" Bobby called and Jody started after him, but stopped briefly - Dean imagined Bobby had raised a hand to stop her, although he didn't turn to look.

Castiel followed him still. They pushed through the trapdoor (hidden underneath an excessively heavy cupboard that only moved if pushed along short rails, which automatically happened when the trapdoor was opened from the inside pulling a lever, but was much harder to wrestle forwards when on the outside) and continued on. Dean could hear the cupboard sliding back in place and for a brief moment was once again taken over by wonder at just how paranoid the group who'd built the base had become.

He walked on and unlocked the heavily barred front door, kept right on and finally stopped at Impala's side, leaning over it to breathe like he'd lacked air the whole time he'd been indoors. The angel stopped next to him and raised a hand onto his shoulder, then the other over his bandaged hand, pulling it gently away from the car's metal roof onto which it had much too heavily landed. His care was both frustrating and lifesaving for Dean, who tried to hold inside an array of emotions fit for no human being to keep at bay all at once.  
He didn't even know what he felt the worst over: the fact he'd pushed Bobby away and got him killed, the fact he was still alive and kicking but had lied to him and abandoned him in turn, the fact his brother was inside that small iron box alone and he could do jacksquat about his wellbeing, or the fact this all made no sense and he was utterly lost again with no concept whatsoever as to how to react to anything. Castiel's hand stayed on his shoulder and somewhere in the distance, blackbirds sang. The gentle breeze was growing colder.  
Autumn was nearly there.


	44. Catch-22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the fuck was I on when I wrote this chapter
> 
> Apparently longer to celebrate the end of hellatus. Good luck to us all with S9, folks.

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

They stayed out for a good while. Eventually Dean grew too restless to stand still by the Impala and, with one hand always ready to pull out his gun, wandered off along the trails leading through the salvage yard. Castiel walked with him, and they shared a common bubble of anxiousness, one that slowly started to lift the longer they walked aimlessly about.  
After a while Dean stuffed his hands down his pockets, the injured one's fingers barely fitting past the mouth due to the thick bandages covering it, convinced enough that the grounds were safe. He'd noted at least five different working cameras well hidden in the piles. If he hadn't known to look for them, he wouldn't have seen them, but this explained why they hadn't been shot at entry and why the door, while locked with the single lock, had not been barred. It also explained how Bobby had managed to pull his Houdini act, because he always knew beforehand if someone was coming, leaving him with well enough time to slink back to his hole and sit quiet and still until the threat was over.

The duller he grew to the situation he was in, all the absurdities and impossibilities and the threat of approaching doom he couldn't shake off, the more he became bothered by the smaller things. Finally, at a corner of the yard he'd grown quite certain was in a blind spot from all the cameras, he leaned to what might have once been a car and turned to stare at Castiel. Only dim starlight illuminated the grounds here and the darkness kept him on alert, but he was comfortable knowing this place was about as safe as it would get in the new world: croats didn't stumble about that far in the dark, and the rest of the paranormal predators simply had no reason to lurk about these parts as there were no living souls within miles from here to snack on. The only creatures Dean expected were those of the natural world - at worst perhaps a feral cat would appear.  
He looked at Castiel who seemed even more comfortable than he was, if not still stuck in that antisocial mode he'd entered earlier. In the dark Dean allowed himself to watch the older to his heart's content, as even though he knew that Castiel was well aware of him watching, the darkness covered just how he did so.  
Eventually he shifted and turned to look away instead.  
"Cas," he spoke quietly, hesitating.

The angel leaned his weight over to his right leg and rested his hands on his waist, looking up at the sky instead of at Dean, but there was no doubt he was listening.

"At the gas stop earlier."

The angel turned to look at him now, his head tilting in response to what he seemed to consider an unexpected subject for Dean to bring up now. The younger didn't know how to put this - he wasn't afraid it was going to come out offensively, he quite frankly was far past fearing offending Castiel now, but he didn't know what kind of a response he wanted to go looking for. The way he'd have to hear it depended on how he'd ask the question, but all versions seemed equally bad.  
After a moment he decided he'd just have to pick the first one to fall off his tongue. For some reason, he still held the angel's undivided attention.

"You got us the permits - Cas, I just wanted to ask... since we didn't - you didn't - have anything to trade, I..."  
He licked his lips anxiously. No, he really did not want to know, but the question was out there now. Castiel's lips parted slightly, Dean could see it from the corner of his eyes even in the dark. The angel readjusted, his fingers slipping into his pockets before he turned his head in the other direction. He thought for a moment, letting Dean grow more and more nauseous in the absence of confirmation.

"Dean."

The younger lifted his gaze but found he couldn't quite look at the fallen angel, so he kept moving until he was looking past his shoulder towards the piles of cars instead.

"I've learned much of what you think of me," Castiel spoke, one hand sliding up on his neck to rub at the thick black curls at the base of his skull, "but I don't know just how strongly you despise me. How filthy you find me, just how used and worthless, and how much of it is your own disappointment in whom I became and how much of it is based on the reality of  _what_  I am. In short, I'm not sure what my worth is, because you're the only measure I have on it. As long as I disgust you, I know I'm not worth much. But to not know just the full depth of it - I don't know my own limits, and you don't offer me a rank I can accept if it keeps changing. So, Dean, what do you  _really_  think of me?"

 

  
*

  
 Things had gotten bad between them. Dean wasn't sure when and now that he was faced with a direct question, he realised the extent of his own obliviousness to how far they'd come. On one hand, he did love Castiel. There wasn't much he could do to deny that. It wasn't on a single level either, it was a deep-seated and profound kind of love for Castiel, for what Castiel was and what they shared together, both the good and the bad. Dean loved the older as an ally, as a friend and as something he wasn't quite ready to define, something more than an occasional lover, but giving that part a name would have made it terrifyingly real, and Dean wasn't ready for that. He kept that portion unnamed and cherished it in his own way. It seemed that way wasn't quite translating to Castiel, perhaps for a good reason. Perhaps he was, in fact, a very bad lover in the sense that he took but didn't give, and in all honesty, this was probably the case. He knew it. He also knew the reasons - he'd already given so much that he hardly had anything left to hold onto. He feared giving the older anything more than the rare word of comfort or a brief touch that would encourage him to come closer still, because as long as his deeds benefited him, he couldn't lose what he couldn't afford to give up.  
On another hand, he did despise the older. That was a lake of tar he didn't know how to look into: a thick, boiling mass of disappointments, resentment and fear that suffocated him as he approached it. What Castiel asked now was for him to not only venture right into that pit but to also unleash it upon the other side, the pure side he'd purposedly kept separated. He feared what would happen if he did do that, but also what would happen if he didn't, if he'd just decline a proper response from Castiel now. With the wall intact between the two sides to his relationship with the angel, his anger was full and his hatred seeped into everything they were, but his love was empty and hollow and irresolute, and as such it would never satisfy either of them.

He shifted uncomfortably. There was much too much space between the two of them now - Castiel rarely stood as far from Dean as he did now, and the distance, if only a few feet, felt like it spanned a continent. The younger reached out a trembling hand, not expecting Castiel to take it; to his surprise however, the angel did. Dean pulled him close and wrapped his arms around his thin, warm form and buried his face into the still incense-scented softness of his shirt, breathing in that essence and trying to pick apart what in it was Castiel and what were the scents that masked his being.  
In return, Castiel's arms bent loosely around him and for a moment, he realised how thin he was himself, how much weight he'd lost in just a few weeks, and subsequently how weak he felt overall. They were nothing but ruins, both of them, castaways waiting to die of exposure rather than a direct attack upon them.  
  
So what could he say, when he himself didn't know what he felt?  
He breathed in deep and then out again, feeling the heat of his own exhale spreading between them. His stubble caught onto the fabric of the older's shirt and made a scratching sound every time they moved.

Slowly, something became clear to him. It started out as a minor spark of enlightenment, one he doubted, one that made very little sense to him, and he tried to suppress it and look for answers elsewhere. It was stubborn however and grew, and eventually it was the only thing that did make sense, the only way to put his feelings into words, and a revelation to him as well.  
The fingers of his bandaged hand slid up to Castiel's hair and he looked him in the eye, feeling cold everywhere his body was not in contact with the older's as the already cool night turned colder and started raising a mist that engulfed them inside as sneakily as minutes slipped by.

"It's not that you disgust me. It's that I hate seeing what I've done to you - how much you hurt. I try to push you away because the closer you are, the more I cause you pain. I did this to you, Cas. Without me, you wouldn't have had a reason to stay. I held onto you, and I could have as well clipped off your wings myself. And at the same time, I can't live without you. What the fuck else do I have left, Cas? If you go, it's the worst that could happen to me. As long as you're around, however much we hate each other, I still have someone, and no matter how much I want to set you free, there's just no way for either of us to do that - you have nowhere to go, I have nobody else to return to."

Castiel looked like he was about to answer, then he simply lost the words. He leaned his head over onto Dean's shoulder and his body shifted closer against him. Dean supported his weight effortlessly, enjoying the warmth of him so close, feeling surprisingly calm even though he was in such a vulnerable position there.  
"I hurt people because I love them," he continued quietly, speaking into Castiel's hair now, "And the more I love them, the more I want them to go and the more I want that, the more I hurt them, because I think it's for the best if they in turn hate me. It's easier to leave if there's nothing to stay for."

The angel swallowed, his breathing steady like he was just resting there. His hands slid down from Dean's back and onto the sides of his hips instead, fingers bending around the shape for light support, staying there, warm and solid and reassuring.  
"I feel filthy," the angel finally said, his tone casual like he was speaking of the weather, "but for what it's worth, I'm a whore in spirit only."

Dean didn't know what to say to that. His heart picked up its pace again and drummed loudly in its chamber.

"It might surprise you - and I never intended to tell you - but in the end, I think it will make sense to you and clear some things up for us both; you're the only one I've shared myself with, Dean. Not because I hold my body sacred, as I clearly do not, and not because of any other sentimental value I place on it or on you for that matter, but simply because I do not have any desire to be involved with anyone else. I am curious, and I haven't held back from sating my curiosity in all the ways that intrigued me and brought me some sense of calm and connection, but I've had no reason to indulge in sexual acts with anyone myself; watching and learning has been enough. I don't deny feeling excitement over much of the things I've witnessed, but I have never felt a need to be touched by others, I can tell you my own experiments have been more than enough to sate the physical urges. And to get back to your question: the answer is no, I did not see any need to get involved with the dealer either. I can get what I need just fine with what I've learned about humans and their desires without having to involve myself in the matter in any physical sense. I have certain currency, Dean, that you probably overlooked, which well fits in my pockets and is of some value in the current conditions."

The relief and surprise Dean felt, against all his expectations, was countered by a flood of questions he tried to assemble to some flimsy order in which to ask them. Without realising it, he'd pulled Castiel even closer and was now holding him rather tight, but the angel's response to his touch was just as it had been, loose and especially in contrast to Dean's clinginess, lacking passion and more of the kind that simply sought comfort from contact.

"Then what the hell did you bribe him with?"

Castiel chuckled quietly.  
"Weed."  


 

*

 

Dean's limbs felt like they each weighted about thrice as much as they should have when he kneeled in front of the cupboard and knocked on the floor in front of it, producing a clumsy rythm in hopes of someone opening the trapdoor from the inside. He'd tried to get it open from the outside and Castiel had tried, too, but they clearly had no idea how it worked. The silence was perfect until suddenly, the large cupboard shifted, as slow and creaky on the tracks as it had been the first time they'd stood there.  
Jody blocked their way in. She held their personal bags out for them and baffledly, Dean grabbed his. Castiel kneeled next to him to accept his, apparently disinterested in the development. 

"Bobby said you'll occupy the upstairs room and that he'll talk to you over morning coffee tomorrow. Dean mainly. Castiel's welcome here, if you choose to stay."

Castiel smiled but shook his head.  
"I couldn't possibly leave the fearless leader to fend off for himself. We'll take our chances together as always. So the rooms upstairs it is, thank you." 

Dean scoffed. He was ten kinds of unsatisfied with this, but none of his arguments really held water. If Bobby did not want him downstairs, he couldn't tell him otherwise. Even after their disagreements, the amount of respect Dean held for the man kept him at bay. On top of that, he didn't really desire going anywhere near him now - he had his hands full and knowing the old hunter was alive and well was more than enough information for him for the time being. The rest would come, inevitably, at one point or another when he would hopefully be more prepared for it.  
"You can expect us to board it up pretty good so if Bobby wants to hand over half his house for us, we're going to make it ours." 

Jody shrugged.  
"He suspected as much," she spoke indifferently, then glanced down.  
She remained silent for a moment but appeared to still have something to say, so neither Dean nor Castiel moved. Finally she looked at Dean, pursing her lips briefly before speaking.  
"Bobby's watching over your brother for now. You'll get to do your part - we have means of alerting you in case Sam needs you." 

"Means of alerting?" Dean repeated sceptically. 

Jody winked.  
"You'll find out if you must," she noted simply, "but truth is, we don't have enough space down here for you. Rufus has sometimes brought along other hunters he's teamed up with, and they've stayed in the upstairs rooms. You should find everything you need in there." 

Castiel made a displeased sound.  
"Is it too much to ask for some food we could take with us? We're carrying a lot. It's all in the twin black bags. I'm starving." 

The woman raised her brows in a way that messaged them she had nothing against lending them a supper at the very least. She lifted her finger to keep them at bay and walked down the ramp - Dean walked right in after her despite feeling Castiel's fingers holding the hem of his shirt to keep him back. He jumped off the ramp before reaching the bottom and walked past Bobby, who glared at him over the book he was reading, to the panic room's door.  
He heard Jody complain but ignored her, pulling open the small window on the door instead.

"Sam? Sammy, you hear me?" he spoke into it, peering inside into the darkness.

He heard the younger move and get on his feet inside, then the sound of his footsteps as he approached the door. He stopped close enough for the yellow light that illuminated the basement to light his features as well. He looked weary and withdrawn.  
Dean slid his fingers through to the other side and held the window, watching his brother watch him back passively, swaying slightly from side to another.

"The old grump and his sidekick are telling me I'm out, but I'm not going far. I'll come check on you in the morning. Hang on tight 'til then, you hear me?"  
  
Sam huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching in response to the words.  
"Yeah, I hear you," he said in a raspy voice and looked Dean in the eye.  
The eye contact made the fine hair on Dean's neck stand up. He nodded and closed the window with something solid stuck in his throat.

Castiel helped him carry the food upstairs.  
No good night's wishes were exhanged, and when they ascended the stairs, they could hear the cupboard sliding back in place. 

"Man, I want a base with one of those installed," Dean muttered as they continued on.  
  
They peered in a couple rooms before finding the one where three sleeping bags were piled up in the corner - it had previously been a bedroom, but it was a bedroom no more for sure. There was even one of the portable stoves in the middle of the room, not that it would keep the cold at bay. Castiel laid down the bags he carried and walked around the room, checking the window was properly closed and whether it could be used for an escape route. He returned to the middle of the room looking unsatisfied as the window was too high up with nothing below it to climb down by, but Dean felt safe enough. He knew this house and he trusted the bolted door downstairs. There were few things that could surprise him in the house of Bobby Singer, and most of those things he believed to be far, far away from the premises.

He chose one of the sleeping bags and rolled it open to have something to sit on. The portable stove had gas in it and the food bag they'd brought had a fitting kettle in it. For what it was worth, they were quite well off for now with a roof over their heads and a meal just waiting to be prepared.  
Dean made a conscious decision to not bother himself with things downstairs: there was nothing he could do about it, and plenty of things he felt was necessary for him to do here instead.  
Castiel, as if reading his mind, turned to look at him.  
"Do you want to talk about it?" the older asked. 

Dean glanced over at him, unpacking the kettle. It got stuck in the bag and he turned back to wrestle it free.  
"Talk about what?" he asked, managing to dislodge the handle from whatever it had caught onto. 

"Bobby."

"No, I don't. Cas, bar the door with something. Do you want meat or should we save that?" 

Castiel sighed.  
"Save it. Vegetables and rice should be plenty enough."  
He turned to leave the room.  
"I'll find some water." 

Dean listened to his footsteps disappear down the stairs and then the sounds of him rummaging through things. Then everything went quiet for a while and as Dean waited for the noise to resume, he laid down on his sleeping bag and tried to relax. He was stuck in an agitated state of mind, unable to calm down at all, and each time he heard a sound, he felt like his insides jumped as if trying to abandon the vessel. He yawned - the physical exhaustion he felt was quite as extreme as the restless sea of noise inside his head. His hand throbbed, too; he hadn't had the time to take care of the burn yet.

In a moment's time Castiel started walking about again, but now he moved less swiftly. Dean imagined he was looking for something to block the door with but soon enough he climbed up the stairs again, bringing a small container full of water to the doorway.

Dean rolled over to reach for it, then sat up with it on his lap, intending to put together the stove and lay out the food now that they had all the means to prepare it. Castiel disappeared without a word to keep looking for a barrier for them. After moment he came back, looking baffled and holding up an old metal key - Dean had just finished setting up their makeshift kitchen and turned to look.  
He felt stupid when he watched Castiel close the door and lock it with the key.  
  
"Well, that should do it," he grimaced.  
Clearly they were much too accustomed to things working the hard way if their initial first instinct to make sure they wouldn't get intruders in the room was to block the door with something instead of looking for a key to lock it with.

Castiel left the key in and wandered over to where Dean was, finally sitting down on his sleeping back so close that his warmth radiated over onto Dean.   
Dean yawned.

"Can you open this?" he asked, handing the angel a can of vegetables.

The older took out a knife from his belt and jammed it into the can's top. They sat in silence until it was open and even a bit after, Dean watching the still water above the fire and Castiel staring into the canned contents of his achievement.

"Don't you think they could have invested in a gas stove?" Dean muttered after a while.

Castiel shrugged.

"I mean," the younger continued, taking the can from him and laying it on the floor instead for no good reason whatsoever, "even if they cut the power to the house to avoid leaving tracks. A freaking gas stove is better than  _this_." 

The angel's gaze trailed out the window.  
"I think they had one down in the... well, it's not a basement anymore, is it." 

"More of a base without the ment. Really though?"  
  
"Yes. I'm not sure, but I remember seeing one there. Whether it functions is another thing entirely." 

Dean bit his lip.  
"Did I leave the rice somewhere?" he then asked. 

Castiel handed the bag to him with a quiet sigh.  
They sat in silence for a while after that again. Then suddenly Dean straightened up and stared at Castiel, having revisited half an hour or so back in time to a detail that had bothered his subconscious. The realisation, late as it was, was like a punch to the face.  
  
"Wait the  _fuck_  up. So you actually  _were_  a virgin when we first slept together?" 

The older stared at him blankly for a moment before rolling his eyes and pouring the rice in the kettle himself, as Dean obviously was getting nowhere fast enough with it. He avoided the taller's piercing gaze even as Dean tore the bag back from him, sending a few grains of rice raining to the floor.  
  
"You didn't think of mentioning that?" 

Castiel glanced at Dean in passing.  
"No," he simply replied, leaning back where he sat.

Dean ditched the rice and got on his knees, grabbed the older's shoulder and turned him to get the eye contact Castiel was keeping from him. The angel examined him calmly.  
"It took you a full hour to realise this?" he finally asked with an amused spark in his eyes, and Dean's lips parted without his approval.

The younger breathed in and out a couple times before falling back to sit on his own lot. His palm remained on Castiel's shoulder.  
"I - fuck. Cas, I'm sorry," he managed to speak out loud. 

Castiel shook his head and leaned over to mix the rice boiling in the water in front of them. The room smelled vaguely of burning gas.  
"Sorry for what?" he asked, his tone casually curious, "For not making it better for me?" 

Dean nodded uncertainly.  
"I guess?"

The angel smiled, turning to look at him again. Dean's cheeks felt hot.  
"It went just as I wanted it, Dean. You don't need to apologise. I left the detail out because I had an idea, and you would have never allowed me to take you if you'd known I lacked experience." 

"You seriously did all that based on theory alone?"  
  
Castiel chuckled and turned his eyes down. He drew invisible circles on the sleeping bag underneath them with his fingertips, his smile timid all of a sudden.  
"I did mention I have experience with myself," he grinned, raising his gaze again.

The sudden eye contact made Dean feel self-conscious and exceptionally aware. The feeling of warmth over his cheekbones grew worse and spread over onto his ears.

"I've mapped myself out well enough to apply the knowledge in practice for someone else, too. Of course I was a little clumsy, but I don't think you noticed." 

"I... didn't."

"Good."

Castiel's fingers traced Dean's jawline, nails bending the scruff on his face out of the sheer joy of it - his hand moved past the younger's ear and onto his neck instead, pulling him into a kiss that never grew into anything more than a soft, lingering touch of their lips.  
Dean swallowed and before Castiel could pull back, he renewed the kiss. Still no tongue was involved, but the manner in which they moved was more active now.

"What did you want from me?" he finally asked.

Castiel smiled, nipped at his lip and made a sound that made Dean's hair stand up in arousal.  
"I wanted you to feel you were worth the affection. Did I -"  
His mouth moved down onto Dean's neck instead, and the taller let out an unintentional moan.  
"- succeed?" 

"Cas... don't, we need to eat and rest, really -" 

The angel's hands were on his chest, then under his shirt, and then he had no shirt anymore.  
"I don't care, Dean. The only thing I want is you, here, now, so turn off the fucking flame."


	45. Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being late again! I've been really sick and it's crap. 8(
> 
> Here's a porn chapter, but... as a fair warning, it's not the most hygienic thing ever. And now that I mentioned this, you'll actually pay attention to it, won't you? D: I'm sorry. Honestly, I am.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

  
Sam laid down on the mattress and recalled the last time he'd been stuck in the room. He tried to remember what were the things he'd seen and heard, if only to drown out those he saw and heard now; nothing, however, came to mind. He pulled up his blanket and tried to breathe, but his chest was heavy and slowly filled with water, or perhaps it was something else, something thicker, like cement or tar. He coughed and his own blood splattered all over his hand. With a grunt of discomfort he closed his eyes and willed the blood away. It was still there when he opened his eyes again.

Clearly resting wasn't a thing he was going succeed at - he climbed up, wiped his bloody hand over his sweaty forehead and coughed again, and more blood splattered on his shirt accompanied with a severe crushing pain over his chest. He doubled over, coughed, wrapped his arms around his waist and tried to hold back the vomit that climbed up his throat. Almost blind in the dark now that the room was no longer illuminated by the sky above, he sought out the iron wall and leaned onto it. It wasn't the wall, however, it was the door, and perhaps only seconds after, the window on it opened.

"Sam."  
Bobby's voice.  
"How're you holding up in there?"

Sam laughed, brushed his nose and coughed again.  
"I'm good," he croaked out, "and you?"

"A little worried that the sounds you're making will attract unwanted attention."

Sam laughed again. He fell on his knees in front of the door, finally able to breathe again. His lungs kept a raspy sound however, like they were fulled with dry pine needles and dirt.  
"I'll - I'll try to keep the volume down," he replied.

Deep breaths in and out - the feeling of suffocation lifted. The problem with detoxing was that the discomfort never really ended, it just changed shape before he grew too accustomed to its previous form. Now his stomach was starting to ache like someone was literally twisting his guts around a metal pipe or a bat.  
He gagged and turned to reach for the water somewhere behind him. Instead, he managed to knock it over. Low curses dripped off his dry lips like more of the blood drops. Now back in the line of the faint night light, he looked at his hand again and stared at it for a good while afterwards, looking for the blood that had been on it and that was now gone like it had never existed. Proof enough that it had, in fact, never existed.  
"Bobby? You still there?"

"Yeah?"

"I knocked over the water."  
  
"Oh, for heaven's sake, boy."

Sam smiled weakly.  
"Clumsy, I know."

He sat on the ground and looked up at the sky above. The only thing he was really certain about was that he really didn't know if this all was a hallucination: the sky, the room, Bobby and Jody, maybe even Dean and Castiel. Perhaps he was still actually in Camp Chitaqua, dying of fever or just finally insane.  
"Bobby?"

"Jody's getting you more water. Just wait."

Sam's legs trembled when he pulled himself up. He couldn't walk a straight line but found his way to the yellow hole in the wall that was the still open window.  
"No, it's just... the whole thing. It's weird."

"I know. And you still haven't told me how you got rid of that pesky little angel."

The metal was cold against the tall male's wet forehead. He breathed in the rusty smell and prayed for clarity. A faint wind caressed his back and raised his skin on goosebumps.  
"We don't really know," he finally spoke, shivering.

"Didn't ask about what you-in-plural think or know, Sam."

Sam thought for a moment.  
"Honestly?" he asked then.

"Yup. Any theory as long as it's your own."

Speaking out the words here felt like a gamble, a dangerous thing to even consider. In the night, an owl declared its presence with low, repeated hoots. A metallic sound carried into the panic room from the salvage yard - both were normal sounds for the area, but in Sam's ears, they were all signs of something more. Finally, he pulled his courage back together, drew in a shaky breath and spoke, barely out loud;  
"I think God finally intervened."

"Oh, boy. You've gotten optimistic since we last saw. Fine and well, let's get you a new bowl - and a towel, I suppose, because someone's gotta mop the floor up, and it sure as hell ain't gonna be me."

 

*

 

The good thing about camping equipment was that the heat stayed on for a good while. Therefore the rice kept cooking in the dark where Dean and Castiel had hastily relocated their makeshift kitchen, far enough from them that it was in no danger of being kicked over. Castiel had pushed Dean down on the sleeping bag and taken it upon himself to kiss his body through - Dean's fingers massaged his scalp and tugged at his hair, his body trembling in anticipation to the older's touches, his mind mostly blank and for the part that it was not, full of the older and nothing else.  
His free hand slipped over onto Castiel's side, and through his thin shirt he could feel his ribs. The contact between their skins was hot in contrast with the cool air of the room.

As the older's fingers started undoing Dean's belt, he pulled him up and kissed him on the lips again, and although the angel was unwilling, he managed to push him on the floor instead and climbed on top of him before he could resist. Dean pushed the male's head up to uncover his neck; the kiss he gave him there was slow but intense.  
"I'm so tired I'll fall asleep on top of you," he muttered against the pit between Castiel's collarbones, lips brushing against the skin every now and then as he breathed, "but before then, I'll try to make it all up to you somehow."

Castiel chuckled softly. He brought his hand over to Dean's hair and brushed through them.  
"Take your time," he replied, "we still have nights to come."

"Yeah."

"Nights when I'm properly washed and not car-smelling and sweaty."

Dean growled. Even though he still had pretty refined senses of smell and taste, he couldn't find traces of "car-smelling and sweaty" on the older. The freshness was gone, that much was true, but he was certain he tasted worse than the fallen angel did.  
So instead of playing into the male's resistance, he moved down his body again and undid his belt, the button and the zipper of his jeans and, to his minor surprise, found no cloth from underneath, just the silky skin and the rough dark hair that covered it in part.  
He looked up and saw a grin on the angel's lips - the male's eyes were closed. A smile played upon his own face as his fingers dragged down the unnecessary bit of clothing.

The distinct feeling of being a fresh drop-out all over again and having brought a girl into the motel room while dad was out hunting and Sam still at school had creeped all over his subconsciousness, and he tried his best to keep quiet like he'd done back then just in case Sam decided to come in early and he'd need to hear him before the door opened.  
He didn't believe for a moment that anyone would hear them downstairs, not really, but he certainly wasn't sure there wasn't a hidden camera spying on them somewhere. He hadn't spotted any, but that didn't mean Bobby couldn't outwit him in his own house. Clearly, he'd already done it before. In case there was, the only hope he had was that absolutely nobody wanted to see them like this - but even the chance that perhaps someone _did_ see, no matter how little, was rather terrifying.

The thought left a sour taste in Dean's mouth, one he drowned with that of Castiel's. The older's fingers wound tightly around what little hair he had to grab as Dean slid his tongue up his hard length; the younger's heart was beating fast out of sheer nervousness. After just one go at it, he definitely wasn't an expert and he had no idea how he'd performed the last time around, but judging by the restless movements and tiny sounds let out by Castiel, his start hadn't been all that bad.

To his surprise, now that he wasn't too drunk and too worked up to notice, he realised that unlike most of what he did in bed (or on other surfaces such as slippery yet sticky sleeping bags that other people would probably sleep on in not so distant future), blowing Cas wasn't a thing that came naturally to him. It required concentration and was more tactic and planning than it was fun, and enjoyment was mostly far from the act for him. His saliva had already stained half his face by the time he'd gotten to actually sucking the other off, and his jaws got exhausted so fast it was ridiculous. That wasn't even touching the fact he couldn't really figure out how to fit all that flesh up his throat without choking on it, and what the hell was he ever supposed to do with his tongue evaded him so efficiently he started wondering if he was actually just supposed to swallow it for the time being.  
He was laying on the floor on his stomach, leaning onto his elbows between Castiel's legs, but most of his weight was supported by his back muscles and this, while still better than balancing on his knees on the hard floor, was quickly wearing him out and turning up as a slowly growing strained ache inside. That ache restricted his already complicated breathing.

It was, in full truth, so miserable he had to take a break to laugh, and as a reward for that, Castiel dragged him back up to his hips with a hard tug of his hair, one that left him with tears in his eyes. In all fairness, he wasn't entirely sure how much of the tears was the product of that short-lived stinging pain and how much the result of him choking and laughing. Either way, he returned to his task and noticed, relieved, that on a second try it was actually a little easier, as if minor recalculations in his position as well as the knowledge of what to expect had already taught him a lot. He could now even fit his tongue in on the job, and it didn't take long for the older's moans to get him hard as well. The manner Castiel reacted to his mouth on him was exciting, intoxicating even - something about it all, the whole situation and the implied power settings thinly veiled underneath the surface, was quickly becoming overwhelmingly arousing for Dean. He leaned heavy onto the elbow of his injured hand, using the uncovered fingertips to keep the older's sex at the right angle, and moved the healthy one right down onto his own body. He had to pull back to gasp for air when his fingers wrapped tight around his erection, but now that both his own pleasure and determination were concentrated on giving Castiel what he very obviously needed the most, he was quick to take him in again.

Being a male had given him one edge over the girls he'd played this game with after a brief miscalculation of their natural understanding of a man's anatomy: even when Castiel made no effort to alert him, he knew very fast when he was better off pulling back and continuing by hand. He let go of his cock and wrapped those same fingers around Castiel's wet sex, jerking him off with determination that reflected his own need more than any understanding of how the older wanted to be touched. It worked well for them both, however, as the angel's fingers bent around his arms just a few seconds after he'd switched off and held him tight as his body tensed in release. At the same time, for Dean, while watching the other come so hard for him was already a pleasure on its own, it also marked the change in roles for them. With a smile on his face over a job clearly so well done, he expected his turn would come next.

The fallen angel never let go of his arms, but his grip strengthened again in a few moments. He pulled Dean up on him and kissed him, eyes still closed, and the way he moved was much slower and gentler than he'd wished it to be, as unlike Castiel, he was still burning with ten differend kinds of needs that were all screaming for rough action in everything he did at all times. Grunting softly into the kiss, he brought Castiel's hand down his body, but when the older grew aware of the movement, he resisted and wrestled his hand free. Dean bit his grin, feeling the male's hand give his hair yet another pull in retribution.  
"C'mon, Cas."

"Well, aren't _you_ needy."  
  
"Fuck you."

"Wouldn't you like to -"  
Dean's teeth sunk into the older's neck, ending that sentence with a half-pained, half-pleasured moan. Then, with a smirk, he pulled up just a little bit, his still-parted lips brushing the angel's ear before he breathed out, holding back before speaking.  
"Yes," he purred then, his voice causing the older to tense up, "I would like to fuck you."

That wasn't what he aimed for, however. What he did do was lean over onto the older's body again and tease him into joining the rythm of his hips - Castiel pushed down his half-undone pants and the eager, rough manner with which he wrapped his fingers around Dean's erection prompted a whine out of the younger. Dean's hips bumped against his hand right away, even before he'd properly recognised the touch on him, and as his mind caught up with the situation, he'd already pulled back to thrust in again. Castiel's lips were right underneath his ear and his heavy yet still deep breathing poured right against the lobe so that each time he breathed out, Dean shivered and let out a low, quiet moan.

"Cas... could you get _any_ slower?" the taller growled through clenched teeth as the older male's rythm had steadied to strong but unbearably lazy, long strokes.

He could _hear_ the smile on the angel and he didn't even have to check to know he was right. Castiel's lips caressed his own, and he caught them in a kiss that demanded, didn't ask; as a reward, he barely got a chuckle.

"Relax."

"I'll fall asleep if I relax, you son of a..."  
He was silenced by another kiss.


	46. Family Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the whole world expects me to say something.
> 
> I like this chapter.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Dean didn't remember ever getting a more throughout handjob from anyone in his whole life, his own hands included. Afterwards, he was resting on the sleeping bag, panting, eyes closed and every muscle trembling in exhaustion while Castiel cooked their food. It took a damn long time, too, given the rice had gone cool while they'd been preoccupied elsewhere. Dean woke up to the feeling of his bandages being undone and rose into a partial sitting position, from which he soon learned that his abs weren't going to support his weight. He fell back on the thin cover underneath him and growled in discomfort.

"You'll need to eat before you sleep," Castiel noted.  
He didn't seem all that exhausted.

"A-ha."  
Dean's stomach growled. He hated it.  
  
The angel cleaned his hand - he allowed it to happen entirely passively - and spread a thin layer of cream onto it.

"Leave it uncovered for the night," the older said when he'd finished and wiped his hand onto his jeans still in a heap on the floor, "I think it's safe to let it breathe."

"Nngh."  
For a while, Dean felt like that was really the best he could push out of himself, but after a while he managed to sit up again and accepted a worn fork from the bag Castiel had already started digging through.  
They ate straight from the kettle; after all, they weren't carrying around many objects that could pass for plates. They were both still naked and, as Dean now noticed, bruised from odd areas.

His guilt was like an ache in the marrows of his bones and it didn't leave him alone. It seemed to affect not only his appetite but his ability to eat - finally, he laid his fork down into their food and sighed deep. Castiel looked at him, in fact he had been for a while now. From the window, the early sunrise could now be seen on the horizon.

"What is it?"

Dean looked at the angel and tried not to spit out the poison gathering up over his tongue. Finally he managed to swallow it and built something else instead.  
"I hate myself," the new version started, "Bobby's fresh from the dead and Sam's downstairs feeling like crap, and I'm upstairs enjoying a good meal after great sex like I didn't even _care_. And truth, Cas? Truth is, I didn't. I didn't even think about them. I never think of them when I'm with you. Them or anyone."

Castiel lowered his gaze to aim the next bit of food into his mouth instead of his cheek or his chin. Dean watched him eat without really seeing it, and Castiel appeared about as unaware of him. In a few moments, he laid the kettle down with both of their forks sticking out from it and turned to him. He leaned in to kiss the younger and Dean didn't pull back, but he didn't respond either. Castiel seemed to have expected as much and didn't show any sign of being bothered or surprised by it. He brought his arm around Dean and unbalanced him so that he fell onto his lap.  
Dean was too tired to complain, and in truth, staying there felt so much better than the thought of getting back up or moving did. He accepted even the older's fingers in his hair.  
In slow, clumsy movements, he continued eating from that weird position, and so did Castiel. The kettle stayed on the floor.

"I think you need the break sometimes," the angel finally said after they'd finished the supper.  
It hadn't taken more than perhaps three minutes to achieve, but it was a long time to take to reply. Still, Dean's mind connected the sentence effortlessly to what he'd said before.

"I feel like an asshole for taking breaks from people I owe. I've fucked up big time, Cas, and I want to fix it. I just don't know how. I keep... I keep running."

"Yes."  
Castiel pushed him back on the ground and wrestled open the sleeping bag. They crawled in between the flaps together.  
Dean fought the smile that made its way onto his lips regardless of his efforts to stop it. It died down to a mood of conflict and self-blame, nearly hatred of his own self, something he still didn't know how to, or even if he wanted to, conquer.  
"I hate us, Cas. We're disgusting. We need to stop."

"I was wondering when you'd reach your limits."

"We need to stop."  
Dean curled up with his back against Castiel and soon had his arm around himself: it was a comfortable, warm weight that kept him from drowning in the invisible flood that poured in on him from all directions.

"Do you want that?"

The younger nodded. His fingers bent between the fallen angel's and his injured hand relaxed outside the nest they'd built, hanging by his fingers caught up on the bag's side at most a mere inch above the ground. The cool air felt good on his skin.

"I do," he replied quietly. "But I love you. I can't - I can't stop."

"God knows I've tried too, Dean."

Dean chuckled, drifting into sleep.  
"God doesn't know shit, Cas."

The last thing he felt was the male's hold around him tightening and the warmth of his breath against the back of his neck.  
  


*

  
Sam heard the sounds of the hidden door sliding open outside of his cell, but when he opened his eyes, the world was too light for him and the pain in his head erased all thought from his mind. He'd slept again, a miracle in itself but now the withdrawals were hitting in harder than ever. He heard sounds, so many at once he had no chance at telling the difference between what was real and what was not or which of the sounds were truly loud, because everything he heard was a uniform noise that threatened to break his ears. He felt his hands clasping his ears as he moved away from the source of light, instinctively, until he bumped into the cold, hard, rough wall with such power that he was knocked back by it. Unsurprisingly, he lost balance and fell on the ground. The smell of blood signaled him he'd injured himself, but he felt no specific pain to alarm him as to where and how. His skin felt on fire - his whole body was burning.

Slowly, he opened his eyes again, afraid the sunlight would strike him like he was a freak vampire born straight out of a bad horror movie, but now that he was in shade, the light was bearable. He blinked the tears out of his vision and wiped his face clean of the drops that had already fallen. His breathing came out in gasps and huffs, uncontrolled and wild, and his heart raced painfully although he couldn't tell whether it was due to the pain or just another symptom from the detoxing. He measured his level of consciousness and rationality. It was surprisingly good. He still knew the wall wasn't actually caving in on him, and that the whispers that called him by name and repeated awful things in a terrifying, hurtful choir were neither real nor true.

He got back up on his trembling legs, limped to the bottle of water that had replaced the can from before and emptied most of it to quench the thirst he already knew wouldn't be satisfied, only transformed, and then right back out of the light again until he was by the door.  
He was certain the others outside knew he was awake and going crazy: he didn't bother calling for company. The sounds of the four of them existing so close was enough and, with the way his hearing was behaving, probably the best option for them all.  
Eventually, however, the window next to him slid open anyway.

"Hey, Sam, you okay in there?"

Sam turned around, facing his brother through the bars of the door's window. He felt embarrassed and guilty but not certain as to why. His brain ached, a sensation he wasn't exactly used to for the simple reason of headaches not actually stemming from the brain itself.  
Dean examined him and smelled of coffee.

"I'm - okay?" Sam heard himself say.  
The words were accompanied by a trembling, awkward apologetic smile. Of course he wasn't okay, but what else could he say? _Hey, Dean, good morning, I'm seeing white bright lights and the walls are talking to me, and they're not all that solid, in fact most of the seams have opened up as mouths and -_

Dean's expression lightened up anyhow. Sam didn't believe he _believed_ him, but perhaps the older had found some other reason to be happy for him either way. Sam, on the other hand, saw little reason for celebration.  
"You sound well, I mean, uh, you're not..."

"Screaming and shouting at nothing?" Sam grimaced.  
Where Dean wasn't able to see, his hands gripped tight at the hem of his sweat-smelling shirt, so hard the joints in his fingers were hurting as the pressure slowly pushed them from their natural positions. The words echoing inside the room were talking over the older, and shadows of creatures crossed the light every now and then. He could hear the wings of an angel hitting the air and glanced back as inconspicuously as possible. Nothing stood behind him.

"Yeah, I guess," Dean replied embarrasedly, and when Sam looked at him, he saw Lucifer staring at him, leaning to the door on the other side of the window.  
His eyes widened and he stepped back - he could see the hurt on Dean's face even without looking, but Lucifer was gone now.

"Do you - want a cup of coffee or something?" the older asked after a short but extremely uncomfortable and strained silence.

Sam couldn't even look at him.  
"That would be... thanks, Dean," he muttered, trying to glance in his direction.

Dean smiled sadly and closed the window.

*

Bobby cut into his egg like it had personally insulted him. Dean was looking at him from the other end of the table and behind him, Castiel was cooking more. Jody stood next to the angel, leaning to the counter and discussing herb-growing with the older like nothing nerve-wrecking was going on next to them at all. Meanwhile, Dean kept poking his fork at the side of his mouth, unable to aim and too preoccupied to care.

He didn't know how to start the conversation, so he didn't. An apology was always within an inch of slipping past his lips but it was such a large, heavy word he feared he'd choke on it, and that fear kept it inside no matter what. And despite that, what good would come out of it? There wasn't an apology profound enough to give justice to Bobby. On top of that, he still couldn't quite believe - there he was, the man he'd lost, eating a golden-coloured egg in front of him, angry as usual. Was he really supposed to believe that the man he'd buried had been nothing but another monster? Had it truly been _that_ easy to fool him?  
  
At the same time he knew the answer, and the answer was yes. He'd been blindfolded for a long time, seeing nothing but his supposed purpose, his goal and his revenge; killing Lucifer no matter what it would cost him, and it had cost him everything. Once he'd failed it, the blindfold had fallen off and he felt increasingly stupid with every detail he'd missed that was now clear to him. That one time he'd _not_ checked and simply accepted yet another painful loss as a _necessary_ sacrifice was, of course, the one time he should have checked. That seemed to be the way things went for him.

"Goddamn shapeshifters."  
He hadn't intended to say it, but there it was now, the conversation starter. Bobby raised his eyes to him, the bit of egg hanging halfway up from the plate. He held it there and stared.  
"What did you say?" he asked then and finally passed the bit into his mouth.

Dean looked at him and felt like a disciplined puppy.  
"I said, 'goddamn shapeshifters'."

"Yeah, I did _hear_ you," Bobby grunted, "I was hoping to get the freakin' context."

Jody and Castiel had fallen quiet, and the only sound penetrating the silence was Sam's muttering from the panic room combined with the sizzling of the egg baking on the pan. A bit of the egg Dean was eating got stuck in his throat and he swallowed thrice more to get it down. His eyes watered, and he wasn't convinced it was all because of the egg.  
He reached for his cup of coffee and drank.

"Just that it's kind of ironic, you know?" he said then, clearing his throat and raising his gaze, barely daring to face the man in front of him, "I always check. I _always check_ , Bobby, except the one time I should have."

The corner of Bobby's mouth curved, not into a smile but into something of a voiceless version of a growl. He ate for a bit before clearing his throat and wiping his mouth and the surrounding beard with a crumpled paper he'd previously cleaned a knife with at the same spot.  
He didn't say anything for a long while, and neither did anyone else - Sam excluded - until Jody announced she was going out to fetch necessities. Castiel, exchanging a look with the rather desperate-looking Dean, followed her out.

"It's good to know where everything is around here," he said before they left.

The eggs left on the gas stove that indeed had existed downstairs stirred restlessly upon the still-boiling butter even now that the fire was out from underneath them. Dean got up and fetched one for himself.

"Do you want the last one?" he asked, his cheeks burning with nervous guilt.  
The whole situation made him feel like a small child who'd done something wrong and just waited to get lectured for it. The worst was that he didn't know whether a lesson would ever come - whether he deserved an absolution.

"Nah, you can have it. You could use some flesh over the bones, y'know."

Bobby leaned back in his wheelchair and stretched his neck, his gaze bouncing to the door of the panic room for just a passing moment. Then he relaxed again and turned to stare at it thoughtfully for a longer while. Dean sat back down and started to eat. Now that he'd started feeding himself regularly again, he felt like he never ceased being hungry at all. The ache of his starved body was a constant reminder of how much weight he needed to gain, and how little nutrition was available. Eggs were a godsend. Especially ones baked in so much grease. He didn't know what to think of Bobby's comment on it: in a funny way, it made him feel loved.

"How the hell do you keep so well stacked? Did you sell your soul, or did Jody?" he asked eventually, trying to wrestle the older's attention from Sam, because the longer he stared, the less Dean could ignore the sounds his delirious brother was making.

"Nah."  
Bobby turned to look at him with that same measuring gaze he'd used on him before and then he shrugged, sipping his no longer steaming but probably warm coffee.  
"As I said, Rufus and some others come here for a bit every now and then. They're on the job still. Like, they get inside the cities and hunt some monsters and get actual rewards for it. It's a nice job. It's a dangerous job, too, because they're not actually citizens, they rely on good fake IDs, of course. So they bring stuff back out and we make sure they have everything they need in return. We've gotten pretty good at it, but we're not the only ones."

"Some others?" Dean asked, feeling his heart beat a little faster in fearful excitement - who were the other hunters?  
Some people he knew? Who from his past could still be alive now that the ashes were rising again?

Bobby gave him a long, piercing look. Then he scoffed, grunted and shrugged annoyedly.  
"The Harvelles, for example. Damn good pair o' survivors, Ellen and Jo."

"They're - alive?"  
Dean felt incredibly stupid when Bobby looked at him again, but that feeling was nothing in the middle of the sudden rush of relief inside him.

"Well, what'd'ya think?" the old man growled, "If I speak in present tense and say they're damn good survivors, then I'd sure as heck expect them to be alive. Are you daft or what?"

A dumb smile spread on Dean's face. He looked down and ate the remaining bits of his eggs in quiet, the expression never leaving his lips until a loud bang carried to his ears from the panic room, at which point a weary sigh blew away the warm happiness from him.  
"They come by here, too?"

Bobby shrugged.  
"Sometimes," he replied simply.

A crooked ghost of the smile was rising from the dead. Dean leaned back and yawned.  
"Hey, Bobby," he said then.

Bobby eyeballed him and wheeled away for a moment. Dean watched him gather up some books from their temporary residence on top of one another, and soon enough he came back again, laying them on the table in front of him and opening up one. Dean rose up and took his plate that the books had pushed forwards; he collected the rest of the dishes and brought them to the sink, then returned.

"I'm sorry."

He leaned to the table and over the older man, who slowly raised his eyes up to him and examined him for a while. Then the older sighed and shook his head, handing him a book.  
"Look for a blue-lavender-violet herb that grows in dry areas, can you?"

Dean opened up the book, looked through a couple pages and laid it on the table.  
"Yeah, sure," he promised, "but only after we've talked."

"Yeah?" Bobby grunted.  
He closed his book again and looked at Dean, but there was a sort of a spark in his eyes that did not communicate anger at all.  
"You bossin' me in my own house now too, boy ?"

A small, warm huff escaped Dean. He sat down on his previous seat and pulled the book in front of him without opening it just yet. He looked at the man in front of him and felt calm again: he was starting to see a pattern forming. Starting was hard. Continuing, on the other hand, was like being trapped in a swiftly flowing river. There was no use panicking - shore would come, one way or another, and the only thing required of him was to stay afloat and try to navigate.  
"Sorta?" he replied, shrugging, "Just so we get this thing clear."

Bobby patted the table. His eyes were keen, and Dean felt them picking up signals from him that he wasn't even aware of, things that only someone who knew him well would be able to see. And Bobby, well, Bobby knew him well. Better than his father had ever known him perhaps.  
  
"Alright, boy," the man finally grunted, his fingers escaping to his trimmed beard, "talk to me."

Dean nodded. He laid his hands on the table, arms and all resting upon it now, and took a deep breath. Sam had fallen quiet, but he'd still made some noise after the loud bang so he was probably still alive. For now, Dean couldn't go check up on him, he simply had to trust.  
"I was wrong, Bobby."

"Obviously."

"Shut up, I'm trying to make an apology here, alright?" Dean growled, starting again; "And yeah, obviously I was wrong. The damn plan went to hell and, you wouldn't believe the things that happened in between but, as a result, everything's screwed. Sam there, he's not my achievement. I didn't do jacksquat to the devil. Lucifer snapped my neck and sent me to bed for a couple weeks just like that, as a lesson to - well, that's kind of a long story. But anyway, yeah, you were right all along, and the things I've done and said and allowed to happen are all things no apology can ever clear up. So yeah - I'm sorry, for what it's worth. Probably not all that much. But it's all I can... all I can say, right? And I'm going to make it right. Do something I _can_ do this time. With Sam, Cas - we'll set right the things we can change."

Bobby tilted his head and brought his fingers through his reclining hairline. Then he pushed his hands down the pockets of his vest and let out a deep sigh.  
"I'm glad y'ain't apologising for just the things you did to me."

"I've apologised for the things I did to you. Repeating it won't get me anywhere."

"Damn right it won't," the hunter grunted moodily.  
His hand reappeared upon the table and sent his coffee cup sliding across the surface.  
"Get me some more coffee."

Dean grimaced, but he felt good now - or at least much better than before. As he passed the panic room's door, he heard Sam pacing inside. He poured the old man some coffee and returned, laid the cup on the table within Bobby's reach and sat back down again. He soon found himself much too restless to sit however, so he bounced back up again and went to pour himself the last cup that remained in the pot.

"Bobby?"

"Yea, I'm still here."  
The man sipped his coffee and made a displeased sound, but the reason for it remained unclear to Dean. He readjusted, leaned forwards on the table - the book of herbs was left between his elbows.

"We're going to hunt the Horsemen."

Bobby's eyes flashed upon Dean, judging his excited but serious expression.

"What, the whole lotta you gone crazy?" he puffed, brows raised and mouth hanging open in disbelief.

"Yup. Something like that," the younger man chuckled and relaxed in his chair, "And we're going to get them, too."


	47. Alone in Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. This chapter made me realise I'm probably Satan.  
> Sorry for missing a date again, I got jumped by the mythical "real life".

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Castiel stayed outdoors. The day was beautiful, even in the midst of piles of rust and ruin. He had no particular interest in interfering in whatever was going on between Dean and Bobby, and even after Jody had returned indoors, he felt it was too early for him to interrupt. Jody was one thing - her presence brought the present time between the two men downstairs. His presence, however, would have only brought in the past and worse, it would have triggered a certain role in Dean, the one in which he always wanted to appear strong and independent. That would only complicate things, and so Castiel stayed out.

Not to say he didn't enjoy it. He truly did. He'd learned in Camp Chitaqua that there was nothing more beautiful in today's world than the nature that flourished in chaos, and nature was plenty around the Singer's Salvage Yard.  
The only downer was that ever since he'd had that bright idea of potentially saving his life - or someone else's - by  _not_  proceeding with the plan to cut the drugs off cold, the withdrawals were an ever-present moodkiller that dried up his will to survive. He sat on the warm grass and leaned back, tasting rubber in his mouth and feeling cold despite the warm weather, and tried to relax as his eyes traced the shapely clouds roaming the blue above. The way Sam was now, Castiel didn't know if he'd ever go as far as to actually tell Dean or anyone else that he still wasn't dry; in his own subjective field of view, he wasn't doing all that bad. He was still using, he just wasn't using much, and he  _was_  slowly reducing the amount he'd already halved back when he'd decided he couldn't take the pain a second longer. A miracle, really, that he hadn't pushed half a litre up his vein at once then, and a small selfish portion in him was still gloating over the fact he was doing so well, being so selfless that he didn't even bother others with his struggles. He knew he didn't deserve to feel that way but he took it nevertheless. There weren't many reasons for pride left for him and he could hardly feel guilt over the matter anymore. He was done feeling guilty. He'd tried his best and it had led him here - what was there to regret, if there was nothing  _not_ to regret? How important was it that he dwelled upon every time he'd stumbled along the way when the whole trip had been nothing but free falling?

Every time he took a shot, however, he felt guilty and like he was lying, when in truth he was only avoiding a fact that nobody thought of bringing up. His addictions hadn't really concerned anyone at all. Dean had never hovered over him like he hovered over Sam, he hadn't even  _asked_  as far as Castiel could remember. He seemed to assume that he could just kick the habit in peace and quiet, that it was no feat at all, like he didn't know - and maybe he did not - that amphetamines were among the hardest to quit. Castiel had already learned from experience just how bad the withdrawals could hit.  
And yet,  _nobody_  had noticed.

It did leave a crappy aftertaste.

Of course he knew why things were like this. It was his own fault, the way he'd ended up - at least in Dean's eyes, and he did acknowledge that choosing to go for the drugs hadn't been amongst his brightest moments. Sam's affliction was almost  _inborn_ , which excused the choices he'd made over the matter - Castiel had just lost himself and all he'd ever been leaving him in a state of perfect devastation and chaos, of course his attempts to regain what little he could of what he'd lost were inexcusable at best. Sam deserved Dean's care because firstly, he was Sam, and secondly, he suffered of an evil force that he hadn't brought upon himself, merely triggered, if even that. Castiel had  _chosen_  to medicate his weakness and pain. Therefore, he deserved to suffer the consequences.

It was hard to not feel bitter. Bitterness was a thing that Castiel had learned particularly well over the time he'd spent half a human, half something that didn't belong.  
At times, he wasn't sure if he wanted to die more than he wanted to feel healthy as a human being. For the majority of time, being a human was a disease in and of itself for him, and what made his body ill made  _him_  closer to alright. These substances were his painkillers, the things that helped him cope, the chemical grace that took a price not from him but his flesh that he despised and while the drugs were killing him, while he was high he felt more alive than he ever did without.

Castiel smiled as he turned his gaze down, allowing the clear drops gathering by his lower lids to fall out, clearing his vision again.  
He was much like a grounded bird with broken wings and he couldn't even cry for help.  
Whether it was his pride or his fear that kept him from doing it, he didn't know - his shame, however, played such a major part that even if he'd end up figuring out what obstacle came next, he knew he'd never quite manage the courage required for him to struggle up to it.

Crying still remained an entirely alien phenomenon to him and he reacted to it with unwilling acceptance; he couldn't avoid it when it happened and there was no way to stop it the instant he willed, so the tears that were coming had to come. With discomfort, he let them run.  
  
Once they were gone he calmly drew in air, refused the convulsion of his muscles that would have transformed the inhale into a sob and then dried his eyes with the back of his palm, exhaling slowly.  
A pain lingered by his chest, however, one he'd learned to associate with emotional hurt or acute realisation of loneliness and disconnect. That he didn't yet know how to control, so he got up instead and started walking again, hoping the feeling would be scattered in the fresh early autumn air along with the dust from his clothes.

 

 *

  
The echoes got louder. It was like hearing an avalanche approach, the low murmuring of the walls slowly turning into a more threatening grumbling noise that still gained from itself until it threatened to suffocate Sam. There was no air for him to breathe and he was shaking, holding his ears yet he could still hear it all. Pain, for the moment, was the dull ache of a fully bruised body; he'd been there, that was pain he didn't mind, it was shallow and a minor nuisance at worst, but he knew it'd grow like cancer under his skin and eventually his very bones would be aching. It would last for an indefinite while, then suddenly that forever would stop and he'd be without pain again, but that was just another form of torture, a silence full of fear of what would come next.

Silence, Sam realised, was a concept he couldn't grasp in his current state at all. His worn ears couldn't remember what silence felt like, how it was to not constantly be bombarded with a billion different signals in various volumes simultaneously. And yet, in a distant corner of his mind that still remained partially logical, he knew his ears were fine. His eardrums were not bending from the pressure of the sounds that weren't really there. It was his mind that was reaching a breaking point, and the pressure was that of his body demanding a substance that was nowhere to be found.  
Lucifer had kept him fed. He had the resources. The wider world, he'd learned, was now almost void of demons, beings that Lucifer had created and then grown to despise to the point where he was as much their doom as he was their god and creator. So, even if Sam could have broken free (and at this stage, there was no more in him to not  _want_  to get free), he wouldn't have found a demon to slay and drink from. The thought of that - through all the desperation it birthed - was enough to get a loud, broken shriek out of him and set him running across the room towards nothing but yet another wall.

His palms collided with the uneven surface, and his fist hit it, adding to the deafening noise that surrounded him in a chaotic storm of sound. The air around him wavered, breaking his vision as his hearing was broken, and he yelled, but he couldn't even hear his own voice, so he yelled louder. He didn't know the words that came out of him, if any did in the first place. It was all just noise as was everything from the outside. Sunshine was like acid poured on the floor of his prison - he crawled towards it, turned to face it and hoped to die.

Then, out of nowhere, he felt a hand on his shoulders.  
When he opened his eyes, the light was broken, becoming a vast clear mockery of a halo around the face of the one who had fallen first.

"Oh, Sam," the angel spoke and his grimace made Sam whimper and close his eyes.

The silence was there now - the terrifying silence of waiting and fearing. Lucifer's breath smelled oddly of whiskey and rust. He smelled, Sam realised, very much like Dean.

  
 *

  
Dean felt like he'd become a nocturnal rodent exiting its hole under bright daylight when he finally had had enough of Sam's screaming and Bobby's bossy attitude and started to long for Castiel's company again. The sunlight was bright and not quite as warm as he'd expected it to be, but much warmer than the indoors air was in any case and the contrast made him all kinds of uncomfortable. He crossed the yard and entered the grounds where the cars were piled up; he didn't see Castiel anywhere, but he couldn't feel concerned. He tried, too, as he walked around and called the angel by his nickname, but the worry simply did not take root. Apparently he'd grown accustomed to the angel disappearing every now and then and learned to trust that he was never in fact truly gone.  
  
Finally, as he walked around the house to the backyard, he was faced with the older who had clearly just gotten up on his feet to follow his call. Castiel smiled in a surprised manner, and Dean smiled back at him. In that moment they both felt awkward and it was written all over their expressions.  
"You were looking for me?" Castiel started.

Dean shrugged.  
"Indoors is fun like a funeral," he grunted unhappily, "but I guess under these circumstances..."

Castiel grabbed his shirt and pulled him forwards, sitting him down next to where he'd probably been spending time before the interruption. Dean followed him without a complaint. He felt tired and was glad that the other was so willing to just tell him what to do without expecting him to explain or make clumsy excuses, and shortly after sitting down Dean noticed he was just as happy for the fact that there was no screaming here, only the sounds of the wind in the trees and that of the birds singing away the afternoon time.

"Look," the angel said when he'd gotten comfortable, grabbed his hand and guided his finger over into the grass, "the ants are taking apart a cockroach."

And sure enough they were. Dean stared at it, the way they bit into the joints and then started carrying away the parts, dissecting the disgusting insect to small disgusting meals that they'd store away or eat or whatever it was that ants did with their food. There was something hypnotic about the unappealing play unfolding before them - it was so anticlimatic, so static, yet so fully enjoyable in its straightforward progress that it made Dean relax. His mind was empty, like the cockroach was the embodiment of his tangled-up mind and the ants an unexpected blessing that chopped away at the mess.  
Castiel leaned his head onto Dean's shoulder and breathed in, breathed out, breathed in, breathed out. Dean's fingers moved inbetween his and they stayed that way for a while without speaking.

"Bobby giving you trouble?" Castiel finally asked.

Dean sighed.  
"I guess. But that's not the worst, I mean, I think we're making some progress - it's Sam that wears me off. He was okay this morning. He even drank a cup of coffee and I got the cup back just fine. Then pretty soon after he just fell right apart and started the screaming."

"That's the way detox works, I've noticed. You hold back and then you fall apart unexpectedly."

Their hands joined together more tightly, but Dean couldn't decide which of them had started the movement. He enjoyed the warmth of the older next to him but he was starting to notice the tension in Castiel's pose as well, the seeming incapability to relax and stay still.  
He wondered if that restlessness was what had driven him to watch the ants and whether watching them brought him the same sort of comfort as Dean felt.

"You're concerned," Castiel continued after a brief silence had stretched between them.

Dean nodded slowly.  
"I've noticed it's become something of a trademark, really," he chuckled tiredly in response, "When Lucifer stepped on me it was like a wake up call to everything I need to worry about, so that's all I do now."

"Things such as, if you'd like to share?"

Dean brought his other arm around the older's body and held it loosely there, and Castiel leaned more onto him so that their sides pressed together as well. It was a soft sort of joining, a lingering feel of warmth and comfortable sensation of weight settling at the point where their bodies collided.  
Somehow it seemed to make Dean less eager to keep his worries to himself. He wondered if that had been the fallen angel's intention to begin with, or if it was just an accidental side-effect; all the same, he was certain the fact his tongue was loosened up by it only pleased Castiel.

"Well, there's the obvious, like Sam and the apocalypse. They're pretty worrysome. Then there's Bobby, who concerns me because I'm a stupid brat who kinda wants to be forgiven despite everything, and then there's survival as the general boogeyman in the background. And then - then there's you and everything we are that I haven't really worked out in detail yet."  
  
Castiel licked his lips and lifted his head to look at Dean. He looked for a while before smiling subtly and turning back to watch the ants.  
"Which one you haven't worked out, me or us?"

"Both," Dean replied without delay, "You're a mess, did you know that? And I don't really even know you, yet I still - you know. I can't let go of you. And that's the other issue - we are - I can't seem to figure  _us_  out either."

"I guess you'd need to figure me out first," Castiel pointed out.

Dean nodded. He petted the older's side with his fingers, and at the same time, Castiel had started undoing the clumsily tied bandages on his hand. He didn't remove the padding, just the bandage that held it together, and started tying it up again. Dean watched him turn the flimsy package into one that looked professionally cared for; it was pretty hard to bandage yourself using only the less capable hand, and if he was completely honest, he hadn't really been trying either. The burn felt good today, much better than before the night without cover. He'd washed it and put on a thin layer of cream, then packed it up himself in the morning before leaving the room. At that point, Castiel had already been up - they'd met in the stairway, Castiel having intended to return to wake him up before breakfast, which they'd then joined together.

"Figuring you out is going to be a pain," the younger grinned after a moment had passed, lifting his hand to examine it.

"Even I haven't figured me out yet, so I can definitely guarantee that," Castiel agreed, "but figuring you out isn't going all too well for me either."  
  
"Cas," Dean laughed, "No offence but I think you're extraordinarily crappy at figuring people out. You get absurd things right, and you're really good at certain parts - but you  _suck_  at actually understanding humanity."

Castiel smiled.  
"I seem better at it than you are, nevertheless."

"Well, we're screwed, then."

The look Castiel gave him made Dean lick his lips in a mixture of nervousness, arousal and surprise.

"We  _are_  screwed," the angel noted with a nod, "Well so."

Dean smirked.  
"Can't disagree with that."

He pulled Castiel right over onto his lap and the older did little to complain - he fell over and shifted so that he was looking up at Dean, his left leg bent up and the right one resting on the grass.  
"Why is it," Dean continued like nothing had happened, "that you turn me on like crazy without even trying to achieve it?"

"That's just how I roll," Castiel chuckled, closing his eyes and adjusting again, finally seeming to find a position in which he felt comfortable in, "The only remaining thing I'm really,  _really_ good at. And you didn't even get hard, so I must be losing my edge already."

"Still in progress. You're an idiot, though."

The only thing Dean got for an answer was a throughoutly entertained and accomplished grin.

  
 *

  
The platform echoed hollowly when the two of them returned to the basement. Bobby had laid papers all over the table and Jody was busy over by the miniature kitchen. The room smelled of actual home-made meat sauce and Dean wandered over to drool at the sight of it first, as did Castiel. Without speaking a word, Jody handed Dean a bag of dirty potatoes and pointed at a bucket of water. Dean exchanged looks with Castiel, shrugged and kneeled down in front of the blue container, starting to wash the potatoes without a complaint.  
Castiel turned from them and went to Bobby instead. He sat down next to the man who still reigned over the table's end.

"What are you doing?" he asked, hoping the tone of his voice implied he was there to assist.

The old hunter pursed his lips and finished a line from a circle drawn over a location on the map to another, then raised his eyes to measure Castiel before answering him.  
"According to Dean, you're on some kind of a suicide mission," he begun then, turning the map towards the fallen angel, "I thought I'd be of assistance. Get you out of here as soon as possible." 

The corner of Castiel's mouth twitched up. His eyes read the map fast, measuring distances and locations and figuring out what each marking meant. The map's side had various coordinates scribbled over it, and Castiel didn't need help in locating the places they pointed to: he'd watched these continents being brought to their shape, learned the measures and had them imprinted in his memory. Even now that all that was faded and he often stumbled where he'd always found no difficulty before, maps were a thing he was good at.

"Are these the army camp sites?" he asked, drawing an invisible circle over one of the many small red ink circles on the map with his finger.

Bobby nodded.  
"And these are resource routes. I've been making calls, gotten all the recent information. They ain't gonna change these before snow at the very least, clearing out safe pathways is a task - even for them. So it's safe to say you need to avoid these if you wanna live. The blue markings are previously cleared, nowadays unsafe routes that are in good condition, a lot o' hunters use 'em to avoid unnecessary hassle at checkpoints." 

Castiel nodded. He processed and memorised the routes, locations and markings, and quickly the full picture started making more sense to him.

"I also, hm." Bobby began, gaining his attention.  
The hunter huffed and looked away.  
"I contacted the Camp for news. They were, how to put it, a little  _unnerved_  at first, but I did soften the lot of 'em up a little, and they'll give information to either you or Dean if ya call 'em. Thanks for abandoning the ship when you were needed, by the way."

Castiel grimaced. He raised his eyes to the man in front of him, recalling the map to make sure he still had it in his head. It was clear, as were all the markings on it. The coordinates faded but he could easily point out the places on the map itself still, as the locations were imprinted in him now.

"Thank you for doing this, Robert."

"Well, the Horsemen ain't gonna off themselves," Bobby replied dryly, "so the sooner you get to them, the better. And don't you start calling me Robert, who the heck is that anyway?"  
The man's mouth twitched, but he killed the smile before it happened and cleared his throat as if to shake off the memory of it too.  
"Do you have a plan sorted out yet?"

The little shrug Castiel gave in response was enough for him - the man seemed to have expected it. He pushed his wheelchair away from the table and moved over to a crooked, overburdened bookshelf to pull out a book with black leather covers. After he'd blown off the dust that covered it, a golden print on the side was revealed from which Castiel could date the volume to around 1960s, although the age of the book itself was hardly an indicator of the age of the text it contained. He didn't get a chance to look at the title.  
A certain burn inside his veins told him his ability to concentrate was running out, but he decisively ignored the growing need and forced his mind back on the subject. He had no idea if he'd even get a chance to shoot up anytime soon. The notion made the burn worse, but it settled as Bobby opened up the book and he could derail his thinking from the urge.   
The hunter looked through the pages for a moment before laying it in front of Castiel, open from a page depicting a medieval-looking drawing of Pestilence as indicated by the chapter title next to it. His rough forefinger tapped the page and pointed at an underlined portion of text.

Castiel turned to it ( _"Plague, attributed to the Horseman of Pestilence, in scriptures refers to not only physical illness, but calamities of nature such as earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, tsunamis and -")_  and soon looked up again.

"I know," he said.

Bobby grunted.  
"Of course you know, you're a thrice-damned angel of the capital L Lord," he growled and pointed at the notes on a paper sticking out from under the book, " _T_ _his_  is what I'm trying to say." 

The older turned to read the notes, soon catching up on what they were. The page contained a list of seismic activity in the States from the past seven months, and the numbers had drastically increased approximately three months ago. The areas affected changed slowly but steadily, the most recent ones pointing to -

"He's still in Kansas."

"Looks like it to me," Bobby nodded, leaning back in his chair so that the wheels creaked, "although it being Kansas, well, you never know."

"What about Kansas?" Dean asked.  
He'd walked over, wiping his hands with a dirtied towel. Castiel pulled up the paper and handed it over to him. 

"Nothing," Bobby replied while he stared at it, "just that it's a generally piss-poor place to live in. Nature hates it, for one. Now, 'least the way we see it, Pestilence has set up residence in it."

The tallest examined the paper blankly for a moment before setting it down and reaching for the book open in front of Castiel. He skimmed the page and turned it back. His eyes strayed toward the panic room's door and there was a silence only broken by the sounds of Jody cooking. Dean caught Castiel's eyes and pursed his lips, pushed himself off the table and walked to pull open the window. He called for Sam and waited. Soon enough, the younger's face dimmed the light coming out of the hole and they muttered something to one another for a moment before Dean slid close the window again and returned.

"He's okay," he reported grimly, sat down and sighed, "Did you mention calling someone earlier, Bobby?"

Bobby nodded. He reached for a blank paper and a book that was open face down further on the table, flipped it over and started copying a Latin spell on the paper with an old ink pen that leaked out a little bit too much ink per stroke, making his handwriting even more illegible than usual.  
"Called the Camp and they told me you can call in when you want your information. Weren't too happy to give it out to a dead man, see."

Dust lingered between them in the light of the small table lamp that shone dimly and coloured everything on the table the shade of half-dried urine.  
 _Speaking of piss-poor,_  Castiel thought absently, _the lighting in this cave is deserving of that particular description._

When Dean finally spoke again, his voice was dry and rough and lifeless.  
"Where's the phone?" he asked, picking himself up from the chair again. 

Bobby nodded towards the shelf next to them and returned to copying the text putting up the mask of indifference he usually wore around Dean, as if the younger was a constant nuisance to him that he wanted to get rid off. He tried his best but as convincing as he probably was to Dean, Castiel wasn't buying the angry facade anymore. The man in front of him had forgiven the younger and whatever remained of his bitterness was aimed at something other than Dean. Most of all, he seemed worried.  
Without thinking twice, Castiel rose up and went after Dean. The satellite telephone had seen better days.


	48. Shattered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-con.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

  
Sam didn't know what time it was. He looked up and saw a dark blue velvet sky above. He couldn't recall when he'd last heard anyone either - the rest had to be asleep.  
It took him a while to realise what exactly had returned his consciousness, as the amnesia still lingered heavy on him and all his thoughts of even the present moment were drowning in a tar-like substance flooding inside him, but when he tried to swallow, he felt it. There was something... something large crawling up his throat, something hard and rubbery with multiple legs that poked at his flesh from the inside. Its tiny claws caught onto the back of his mouth and to the surface of his tongue and it pulled itself up, making him gag over and over in vain. He couldn't breathe - he couldn't see. His eyes watered and his mouth was dry like the desert. The next sensation was of the large thing emerging from his throat: it was large enough to fill his whole mouth. His whole body trembling in disgust and shock, he tried to spit it out but moving his tongue pressed it against the top of his mouth and he gagged again and then suddenly, the thing fell out.

He gasped for air and crawled backwards until his back hit the wall. Every breath he took came out as a loud, sharp sound that echoed from the walls. He sounded like someone who'd nearly drowned and his eyes scanned the floor in a panicked, feverish manner, but he could see nothing out of the ordinary. It seemed as if absolutely nothing had crawled out of his mouth, as the floor of the room was as dusty but empty as it had been before. There wasn't a shadow cast upon it.

And then he felt it again, inside his throat, budging, almost as if digging...

The room seemed to flash. It took Sam a while to realise he'd stumbled right across it in an instinctual attempt to escape from whatever it was that tortured him now. He was standing up now, his sweaty back and palms pressed against the wall on the opposite side of where he'd been before. His breathing was rapid and he was still hyperventilating, but he could swallow now, and the freedom of it set out a flood of intense relief free inside him.

Slowly and carefully he let go of the wall, stepped clumsily forwards and then staying still to breathe in the fresh night air. He felt abnormally normal, everything considered. There was the usual dizziness, the throbbing of an incoming headache, the trembling of his adrenaline-filled muscles and the nausea, but he was alright. None of those things were overwhelming or particularly disturbing. He'd gone  _hunting_ feeling worse than he did now; this was nothing.  
A small smile passed his features. He closed his eyes and raised his face up to the sky just breathing, and his fingers pressed just inside the pockets of his jeans where they held onto while his arms rested. The sound of the wind outside somewhere was like the low hum of traffic in a city, a soundscape he'd almost forgotten, and the sweat on his forehead started drying in the gently moving air. He brushed aside the hair that stuck onto his skin and lowered his head again, daring even to stretch his neck a little. His shoulder muscles complained with a burning pain but he ignored that almost completely, full well knowing the stretching would make them better, not worse.

The feel of warmth around his waist was so natural he nearly did not notice it at first. When he did, it should have scared him, but it didn't. He felt like he'd expected it. Expected the tightening grip, the feel of desperation flooding over him, washing away the relief and calm - like someone had announced this would happen, that this was what he'd waited for all along. That the pain that was gone was only gone because it would overcome him again, multiplied as always when it returned, in a shape more twisted and terrifying than it had been ever before. Yes, he'd known this moment would come.  
Yet still, he already had tears between his closed lids, wetting his lashes and making his weakness visible.

It wasn't a comfortable grip. It wasn't gentle, it wasn't caring, it was cold in affection like the touch of chains and constricted him like metal. It made him a prisoner in his own skin. He didn't know whether he should give in without a fight or struggle, as either way would end up the same, the other would merely make it all last longer.  
To sway him one way or the other, his brain presented him with images: of his own blood, of what would come next, then of Dean, of them fighting together. That was who he was, he decided. He was a fighter. Even in the face of the inevitable - even when the opponent was not really there.  
So he struggled. He pulled himself free, turned in a fast movement that strained his aching muscles. He was an animal - he breathed like one, moved like one, prepared like one.  
Lucifer simply stood there. The angel crossed his arms and tilted his head and chuckled, and the sound he made seemed to freeze Sam's blood right into his veins.

"Don't bother."

The next thing he knew he was on the floor on all fours, his other side hurting so bad he couldn't draw in air as his muscles refused orders. His whole body on that side was nothing but pain, and the metal wall still echoed with the sound of him landing heavy against it. That was why they'd bound him last time. Now there was nothing to bind him to nor was there anyone to tie him up.  
He stood, uncertain as to why, and managed to get some air into himself. The inhale turned into choking and a cough but it was still air and his body was already screaming for it, so what little he got was worth the effort either way.

"You're not real," Sam choked.

He closed his eyes again and told his brain to _stop_ \- turning off the lights here was a welcome option. One his mind decisively denied him, he soon learned. His heart skipped a beat and seemed to sink into itself for a second before clumsily returning to life. This... he would have taken anything but. Somehow he knew exactly what was coming, like it had happened a hundred times before, but he simply couldn't remember - perhaps that was the amnesia. Perhaps it _had_ happened a -

His face hit the floor so hard he felt his teeth sinking into his cheek. He tasted blood, uncertain of whether it came from the cheek or somewhere else. The angel's hand was on the back of his neck, pressing him down, while the other hand had found its way under his shirt. The male's fingernails dug right into his flesh and tore open the skin, dragged long marks along his back from under his shoulderblades all the way down to his hips above the waist of his jeans. Now he smelled blood, too.  
  
The pressure upon his neck lifted but he couldn't get up before he felt a knee digging right onto the horizontal and vertical middle of his back. It rubbed against his vertebra and bruised his skin and he let out an unwilling moan, trying the floor for something, anything, to grab and use for self-defense. He found nothing as there was nothing; he'd known that. Even his bed was too far away from where he was lying.

"You know very well that I am..."  
The banished angel leaned so close he was breathing the words right into Sam's ear and the feel of it raised his hair up and made him gag.  
"... very, mm,  _real_."

Sam's nails bent against the floor as he struggled to throw the weight off of him, but Lucifer seemed unaffected - the human could feel the roughness of the angel's lips bend right around the lobe of his ear and the tip of his tongue touch the side before he pulled back again, leaving Sam's body feeling sick, cold and violated.  
Sam could hear the clicking sound he made with his tongue, and suddenly his weight was gone from over him - the human turned, fearful and hesitant, to see if he'd gone. There he was still, however, standing over him and looking at him with a satisfied grin.

"Didn't that feel good?"

Sam swallowed thickly. His muscles ached from all the dry retching, but even despite that, the pressure inside them revealed the next convulsion was a single word or movement short from happening.

"I'll let you contemplate it. See, business to attend to... I won't be taking long, not when it's _you,_ Sammy. You know me, don't you?"  
Lucifer licked his chapped lips. The room seemed to flash and he was gone - what remained was a loud ringing noise inside Sam's head and the heat that still rushed down his body, leaving him cold from all parts but one.  
  


*

  
The stairs creaked in the silence of the dying night. Dean's toes bent over the edge of the last one before he landed lightly upon the corridor's floor. His skin felt strange with so much dust caught onto it and even more gathered up as he crossed the space and approached the bookcase.  
He pushed his fingers between the wall and the structure, finding what resembled a handle only with an extreme stretch of imagination applied into the mix and pulled. The door didn't budge, so he changed position and tried again. Now he could feel the heavy wood sliding onto the tracks, but he still couldn't move it, so he tried yet another angle and finally, slowly, managed to push the thing out of the way. He closed it from the inside knowing full well that he'd woken someone up despite trying to remain quiet, but nobody came to visit him with a shotgun readied. In the bedroom, hidden behind a thick but unfitting door, deep silence reigned, but from the panic room Dean could well hear his brother moving.  
He leaned against the iron door and breathed.  
"Sammy?" he called through the window he'd wrenched open.

He'd woken up fifteen minutes ago, give or take, to an anxiety he couldn't point out the reason for. Castiel had slept still, curled up next to him on an open sleeping bag with the dirty blanket from the Impala over him, but he'd woken up before Dean had opened the door.  
'Can't sleep,' Dean had told him;  'Just checking on Sam and coming back then', he'd said.  
Castiel had acknowledged it with a murmur and turned around.

It hadn't been the kind of an anxiety that Dean felt when something was coming or when something unnatural was happening. It was the kind of anxiety he knew the best, the kind he feared the most, the feeling that something was wrong with his brother. He didn't know what to expect, so for the whole time it had taken him to get where he now stood, he'd been afraid. He'd learned it the hard way that this intuition he had was best acknowledged and whenever he felt alarmed by it, he should at least make an effort to check up on the younger, as more often than not, it hadn't been a false alarm.

After he'd called the younger's name he didn't hear much for some time. Then finally he could hear Sam standing up inside and walking towards the door on unstable feet.  
The younger's fingers appeared at the window, but he kept his face in the shade.

"Hey, Dean."  
His voice was rough and wavered.  
"Why are you up?"

"I don't know, why do you sound like - well - yeah, like you do right now."

Sam huffed.  
"Like I've seen a ghost, is that what you were aiming for?"

"Yeah, pretty much, except that you gank ghosts for a living and it's never made you sound like that," Dean grimaced.  
He pushed his fingers through the window's bars as well, landing them on top of Sam's. The younger's hand was ice cold and wet.

"I had a wrestling match with Lucifer," Sam spoke after an uncertain silence.

Dean could hear something rattle against the whole in the panic room's ceiling. It sounded like a rat and he didn't consider that an unlike possiblity at all, although the thought made him slightly uncomfortable.  
"Okay, wow, I'd sound like you after that, too. Are you okay?"

Sam chuckled.  
"I'm okay."  
He sighed and turned so that Dean could see him through the window - not for very long, though, as he soon leaned his forehead onto the door, leaving only his mouth and chin visible through the bars.  
"It's not as bad as I expected. I guess... if it was going to get that much worse, it would have already happened, right? So... I don't know, maybe it won't..."

He trailed off and left another silence between them. It stretched, not particularly comfortable for either of them. Dean shifted, pulled back his hand and leaned onto the door, back resting right next to the window. More than anything he wished that he could go inside now and just stay there with Sam, talk about things, keep him company, but he knew better than that. He knew that no matter how lucid the man sounded, there was no guaranteeing that he wasn't going to flip the next second and skin him alive before he'd manage to call for help.

"Sammy?"

"Still here."

Dean licked his lips and closed his eyes. He didn't feel tired at all, and making coffee started sounding like a good idea to him.  
"I just wanted to say that... no matter what, you - you're still my brother, and... I think you're strong. I think you... I think you're doing really well. Yeah."

Sam held his breath for a moment, started a word that died before it could turn vocal, choked and fell silent. Then he drew breath again and reached his fingers through the bars - Dean looked at them, feeling an ache in his chest.  
"Thanks, Dean."

"I'll be here if you need something. Just making coffee and looking through Bobby's notes. Gotta get ready for leaving. You just... concentrate on getting better, alright?"

After waiting for a response that never came, Dean pushed himself off the door and walked over to the kitchen. Something large and solid was stuck in his throat but at the same time as he felt depressed and crushed, he felt relieved, too. After all, a broken Sam was still better than Sam imprisoned and used by Lucifer. Even after his failure in protecting the younger, it all wasn't over just yet.

 

*

 

The dawn broke cold and rainy. Dean heard it on his way upstairs, the drops that landed on the windows all around him, and the cold... the cold lingered upon the corners of every room, slithered along the corridors and licked at his bare toes like tiny impish spirits, vanishing the moment he moved again only to press against him once more when his skin touched the wooden floor.  
He opened the door to their crude bedroom silently, finding Castiel still asleep inside. The white light filtering through the unison blanket of clouds that covered up the whole sky outside turned him white in turn, and once again he resembled the picture of what an angel should look like. His fingers were caught in the mess of his hair, pink lips slightly parted and expression relaxed; Dean closed the door behind himself quietly to avoid waking him up just yet.

He sat down on the mattress of sleeping bags they'd laid on the floor and watched Castiel with a ghost of a smile upon his features for just a moment before laying his hand over the older's side. The male shifted and opened his eyes slowly, wakefulness taking over them sluggishly as Dean watched him. The light turned their shade that much brighter and their blue seemed once more intensified against the clear white light as if more colour had been poured into them during the night. He turned to look at Dean with an almost surprised smile on his face, and Dean looked back down at him so warmly he felt a little ashamed of himself, yet there was no way he could wipe that expression off his face - it was downright impossible, and he did try.

"I made some breakfast," he opened the conversation clumsily.

Castiel nodded. He sat up, stretched and yawned, then stretched again, and finally settled to hug his blanket-covered knees. He looked well rested but still not completely awake.  
"I guess it's going to be more eggs," he huffed, interrupted at the end by another yawn that he lazily covered up with the back of his hand.

"You'd guess right," Dean chuckled.  
He stroked the older's bearded cheek before picking himself up. He stretched, too - he'd spent a couple hours huddled over the books and felt stiff as a result.  
"C'mon, let's go eat before they've cleared everything."

Castiel grabbed his hand and Dean pulled him up. His hand was warm and Dean felt unwilling to let it go, but it slipped out of his grip when the older didn't need it anymore and he allowed his arm to relax and return against his side, cold taking over the warmth that Castiel's hold had left him with. They exited the room and walked to the staircase together, but when Dean started walking down the stairs, Castiel stayed to look out the window. Midway down, Dean turned to watch him - his expression seemed slightly worried, but he soon noticed Dean watching and turned to him, the nervous tone transforming into an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry," he said, starting after Dean towards the ground floor, "It's just quite a mess that we ended up in."

Light hit his skin and illuminated a multitude of tiny red speckles upon his exposed inner elbow. Dean felt a rock falling into the pit of his stomach at the sight and without thinking, he reached to grab the male's arms and pushed him against the wall. Castiel let out a small surprised and choked breath, not even managing to resist before Dean had pulled up his left arm. The taller pressed a finger under the fresh-looking spots and pulled, stretched them to see if they truly were fresh. He felt nauseous and cold and betrayed but most of all, he felt sad. That feeling overflowed all the rest and drained him, and in a moment, he'd let go of the older and simply turned to walk down the rest of the stairs.

"Dean -" Castiel called after him.  
  
"Don't. Just don't."

He heard the angel's steps behind him, hesitant and heavy, and neither spoke a word before reaching the hidden entrance to the basement.


	49. Survival

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Sam listened. That was all he did the whole day - he listened, because he was blind. He didn't bother mentioning it. He assumed that like everything else, it was a temporary ailment, something designed to freak him out just so that his agitated state of mind could throw a bunch of even funnier things for him to freak out about and eventually, he would drop dead from a stress-induced heart attack. He was done with this whole thing. The pain, the blindness, the ringing of his ears, the convulsions, the cacophony of voices, the lies and the truths and the true lies especially.  
  
Now that his sight had given up on him there was no telling which sounds were real and which were just his mind playing tricks on him, but over the long hours he took in few details that seemed logical in following to things he knew were real from before, like when he heard Dean talking over the phone. He was contacting the base, perhaps again, Sam wasn't sure - he could have called them before, too. It was hard to say since days seemed to multiply in his mind. He felt like he'd been locked in this room for months rather than days. Nights and days followed one another sometimes at an hourly basis, and he never knew which nights were the real ones.  
Human mind is an incredible thing, that much he'd learned. He was the god of his own perception, just that the strength of him was beyond his own control and was mainly used to ruin him.

The rocking motions alerted his inner ear to the fact that he was swaying, like thousands of insane people before him, locked in small rooms just like he was. He tried to stop but soon started again. Dust and sand grinded against the cement underneath him.  
He cleared his throat just to remind himself that he still existed and at that precise moment he heard the heavy iron door swinging open slowly.

"Sam?" Dean's voice called.

He didn't react. This was perhaps the fifteenth time within the past three probably-fake days he'd experienced that Dean walked in his cell. His fingertips turned against his scalp from between his oily strands of hair and he rubbed at the rough-feeling skin absently, continuing to rock minimalistically back and forth. His brain seemed to be pulsating.

"Sam, hey, um. Are you - how okay are you?"  
  
Sam licked his lips.  
"On scale from one to ten? Below zero."

He didn't bother _asking_ the Dean if he was real. He'd have to come up with something more clever, but without actually thinking about it first, because if he did, his mind would have time to come up with an answer.  
"Um, nn, how long we've been in here?"

Dean closed the heavy door. A bad sign. Dean wouldn't lock himself in the room with him. Then again, he also wouldn't want Sam charging out, so he might close the door anyway. In fact, the real Dean would _never_ come in the room in the first place for those two reasons alone. Sam sighed resignedly.

"Three days. Brought you some food. Uh, Sammy?"  
  
Sam didn't respond. He did smell the food though, and that seemed like a good excuse for Dean to come in the room, although there were much better ways to deal with his nutrition than... this. He didn't even want to eat. He hadn't for a while. A month, maybe. Or two. That would roughly translate to maybe two and half days he'd spent here, although he couldn't really remember if he'd been hungry _before_ arriving at Bobby's locker. Probably he hadn't. He'd been in a great shape back then, aggressive and delirious. Not much different from now, although his aggression had largely turned into a starved, sleep-deprived lethargy.

"Sam, look at me."

"Well," Sam chuckled, his voice like rocks falling down a mountainside and hitting a sandy pit at the bottom, "You picked a prime timing, because, ah, I don't really see you right now, so maybe just come in at another time. Or if you're not, you know, _you_ , then just stay there and I'll eventually see you again, but by all means, keep talking if that's the case."

He could hear Dean raising his brows. It shifted the air. That was actually rather hilarious.

"Yeah," Dean finally muttered, "That's about what I feared, too."  
He shifted and Sam heard him leaning to the wall. The scent of the food he'd left somewhere around nearby was delicious to his starved body, but it made him so nauseous at the same time that he didn't even consider eating.

"So, um. You're not going to launch on me and skin me alive or anything, Sammy?"

"Nope. I mean, I can't even find you, so that'd be really hard to accomplish, even if I could, you know,  _fight_ like this. I don't actually get stronger from this. Surprising, I know."  
The tremors were back. Sam's tongue stuck to the top of his mouth like sandpaper when he tried to swallow.

"Well, it does give you a _certain_ edge you lack otherwise, don't you think?"  
Dean shifted again, and the back of his plain t-shirt got caught in the wall's uneven surface, releasing a static sound as he moved.  
"So I talked to - Sandra - briefly and she kind of wanted to know how you're doing, what with you two being in love and everything. I didn't really tell her. I said you're progressing, which I hope you are."

Hearing that was painful enough to allow Sam the opportunity to actually swallow. He lowered his head - it had already been hanging low, so that now the back of his neck was bared in full. He adjusted to get his knees to support his head, and only then wrapped his arms around his legs to keep them together. His grip didn't hold and soon fell apart however, so he laid his hands on his lap instead and adjusted the position of his feet to support the position instead. It seemed unbelievable to him that he'd once been able to not only hold a gun but also _shoot_ one and quite succesfully at that, too. Not to mention the fact that this all he could have achieved from an upright position, which at the present moment seemed unachievable in itself.  
A grimace lingered on his face as he thought of the possibility of this being a hallucination he was speaking with. His snarky remarks probably sounded less than convincing if he was launching them at thin air and then complimenting himself about them in turn.

God, being crazy was pathetic.

Sam swallowed. He straightened up and, to his surprise, could actually see the faint outline of Dean standing in the lit portion of the room now. Nothing concrete, just black against a splotch of dark grey, but it was there, and he felt relieved about it, as it confirmed his suspicions about his blindness being only temporary in nature.

"How is she?" he asked timidly.

"She's doing okay, I guess."  
Dean shrugged and took a couple steps, and Sam watched his shape move as if he'd never seen anything move in his life before then.  
"Chuck said everyone's been fishing like it's the end of the world - his words, not mine - and I suppose she's included in 'everyone', because she said she's been out a lot after we left. Preparing for the winter. Salted fish, salted meat, dried fish, dried meat, smoked this and that and a crapload of berries and mushrooms... you know, the usual."

Sam chuckled. His forehead throbbed oddly at the sound and a wave of nausea washed over him again and he trembled, curling up tighter against his warmed-up wall that supported him from behind still.  
"Actually, Dean, I don't - remember?"

"... Damn, you're right, you don't."  
Apparently feeling confident enough that Sam wasn't dangerous, Dean plopped down on the mattress in the middle of the room and crossed his legs upon it. He hesitated for a while before continuing - meanwhile, Sam had spotted another shape behind him. In any other situation, he would have ignored this, but it was behind _Dean_ , not him, so who was he to judge that it was okay?

"Um, Dean? You ever seen a really good spy movie?"

"Huh?"  
Dean raised his head slowly, then glanced behind his shoulders on both sides. He turned back and shrugged.  
"It's okay, Sammy."

Sam relaxed.

"So, um - in the autumn, we obviously gather a lot of stuff to make up for the winter's needs, since there's only going to be so much around then. Deer stay around and the lake isn't going anywhere so we eat a lot of that, but you can't always have good luck hunting and fishing, so yeah, we gather as much as we can beforehand. Last fall was like that too, we were out all the time. Even me, although I was kinda busy doing, well, stupid pointless assaults to demon bases and whatever."

Nothing in the world could have felt better than this right now, not even demon blood to end the torture. In the end, it didn't even matter if the Dean in front of him was real or not. Right now, the only thing that mattered was that he _cared._ When they'd been kids, Dean had often done this before, just sat somewhere nearby talking about things that weren't scary to get Sam's mind off his fears. The same trick seemed to work with what was killing Sam now. He leaned back and closed his eyes and reminded himself that no matter how frustrated he'd feel, as long as this continued, he wouldn't snap.

 

*

 

Castiel had lain on his sleeping bag for nearly two hours when he heard Dean's footsteps from the stairs. He swallowed and turned around, pretending to be asleep; if he'd been in any better mood, he would have found his behaviour in this situation hilariously human, but right now, the only thing he could concentrate on was that he could hardly breathe through the thickness that had settled in his chest.  
Part of him was still relieved, however. He hadn't expected Dean to come up at all, not tonight. Dean had a habit of avoiding situations like this. If someone let him down, or if he perceived someone as having let him down, he stopped associating with them, essentially played mute _and_ deafin all but necessary contexts with the person. As immature as it sounded, it was more of a learned behaviour to avoid unnecessary confrontation while still playing out the disappointment and anger: he'd been let down by a million people and a good half of that had happened after Sam had consented to become Lucifer's vessel. In their circumstances, it was better to be immature than to cause outright conflict if it wouldn't solve a thing. There was no walking out, and they needed each other alive.

As the door opened, creaking, Castiel closed his eyes. He wouldn't get sleep anytime soon: too many things pressed on his mind, not to mention the fluttering of his heart that was directly related to the subjects on his mind and, he assumed, Dean's as well. The discomfort just didn't give him a break.  
Funnily enough, what he did he did to survive. Dean didn't understand this. Dean simply regarded his failure as a betrayal, that he'd chosen to continue the habit instead of quitting. The things he didn't know painted out a different truth, but he didn't even want to hear that. He wanted to keep believing in his own truth and as usual he strongly believed that to be only one.

The older's already unstable and malfunctioning heart seemed to skip a beat when the man behind him settled on their hard makeshift bed right next to him. The taller stayed in a sitting position but he was _there_ , and especially because he hadn't simply fallen back and into a deep fake slumber, Castiel knew that wasn't quite all. He was genuinely surprised and in his surprise, forgot to breathe.

"I know you're awake," Dean said simply, his voice dull and passively angry.

Castiel let out a small sigh. He pulled himself up, each limb aching like he'd ran a marathon, and brushed aside the hair that caught onto his forehead's cold sweat with a still ink-stained hand. Despite the tension between them, they'd worked together for most the day, digging through all available texts on the Horsemen with Bobby and Jody and debating lore to form an approximate picture of what they were up against. Of course, all this had been done before, but after these years and everything they'd been through, it wasn't as if they could recall much of it anymore. All of it was frustratingly pointless; most the texts were prose, plain fiction with everything to do with romanticised ideals of death and the apocalypse rather than fact or even theory, which wasn't nearly as scarce as cold facts were. Yet it gave them all something to do while they waited for the core news - the Camp was tapping into sources in Kansas to find out the exact location they'd travel for next - and while Sam struggled with his symptoms which had turned out to be suspiciously tame in comparison to the previous incident.

The dark blue light filtering through the grimy window now made even Dean look pale and Castiel looked down at his own body, wondering just how he'd lost all that colour his vessel had once had. He looked like he'd lived indoors for much longer than a couple weeks but he'd been through a lot, and that was most likely the reason why he now seemed so paper white in the pale light of the crescent moon somewhere high up in the sky.

"I don't even know where to start, Cas."

"Can I offer instead an explanation that may answer all the questions in a somewhat logical order?" Castiel spoke quietly, his voice just as dull but twice as dejected as Dean's.

Dean considered it for a moment. Then he shrugged indignantly and turned to stare at the corner, clearly barely managing to hold back his anger.

This was what he was like; too afraid to be sad or hurt, so it all turned into anger when he felt threatened. This hurt Castiel the most - for the past weeks, he'd finally gotten close enough for Dean to trust him with those feelings, and now they were back in square one. Of course, he understood the anger, too. He just didn't feel that he deserved it and anger wasn't far from his mind either. Underneath a layer of hopelessness, he had a wildfire that burned at his guts. Sometimes his self-control even amazed him, but humanity had forced him to be this way. Ever since falling he'd felt too weak to take control so he simply hadn't. Instead, he'd learned to avoid it at all costs, and by now he'd become quite the master at his chosen skill.

A faint smile lingered over Castiel's lips, one he didn't really associate with anything he was feeling right then. His reactions still made little sense to him, all these social cues that his body knew but he didn't understand. He was on autopilot and it seemed to work well to convey whatever it was that he was trying to get across without him even _knowing_ he was trying in the first place. Being an angel was slow but very clear. Being a human meant burning like a firecracker, fiercely and without delay, and he wasn't used to such immediacy.  
He sighed again, this time so slowly and quietly it was more of a lengthy exhale, and felt his fingers stray up onto his neck for some kind of self-reassurance.

"I haven't given up," he started then, feeling like this was the most important message he would need to get across to the younger no matter what.  
He even looked up, forced himself to seek contact with Dean, but the younger was stubbornly avoiding his gaze. It didn't really matter. It was a relief, even, because Dean would see that he was willing to take the contact and therefore was sincere, but because he didn't respond, Castiel never had to prove he could _keep_ it.  
"The withdrawals nearly killed me. I tried, but I couldn't do it the way I intended."

"Oh?"  
Dean scoffed, lowered his head and grimaced.  
"You know, the way Sam's dying down there? He's doing what's expected of him - he didn't give up because he felt bad. Right now, he's still in the room, fighting -"

"The way that I _wanted_ to die, and when my body decided the withdrawals together with the blood loss were too much for it to handle... I didn't feel that I deserved to tell anyone about it. Not even when it got bad; I ended up crashing pretty hard - without Beatrice, I could have died when the breakdown hit in full strength. So no, not like Sam is dying, not like that. I'm not _worth_ a fight like his. But in a way that is just as real, and that I brought onto myself trying to achieve the same thing he is trying to achieve."

Dean turned to look away. Castiel felt relieved due to that and he couldn't deny it, but talking about his failures had never been something he could do without experiencing a certain overwhelming shame over his weaknesses and that feeling by far overpowered everything else. It was an inbuilt guilt, something he thought all angels experienced, like a characteristic of their species.  
It didn't hurt, in any sense of the word - worse, it made him _wish_ it hurt, and one of the worst things about it was that it carved him hollow inside without even offering the relief of pain to take his mind off the shame. It was that ache that drove them on, concentrated on the goal and the cause no matter what. Over the years Castiel had nearly learned to live with it constantly there, buried underneath his skin alongside with his flesh and bones.

"Beatrice... she used to be a nurse, right?" Dean cut through his thoughts.

Castiel nodded slowly, uncertain of whether or not Dean would even notice, given that the man was again staring elsewhere.  
"I survived, obviously," he sighed then, leaning back and placing weight on his hands placed behind him on the slippery cloth, "but it kept getting worse. I haven't exactly recovered. I can't tell you what really happened when the worst hit - you'd need to ask Beatrice about that and I truly hope you won't - but my body was in some kind of shock for a while. The pain was excruciating. That's a lot coming from me, Dean, but I'm not asking for sympathy. I know I'm not getting any and I don't _want_ any. That's not what I'm trying to tell you."

His mouth tasted of old rubber. It was unpleasant. With a dry swallow he gathered up his thoughts again to continue.  
"When I could stand up - the whole thing took maybe five hours at most - I raided my cabin. I found some pills, and I nearly... I nearly did go back, Dean. I've never wanted anything as bad as I wanted to just take two, three of those and stop fighting, but I managed it."

"So why the hell did you go intravenous, then? Isn't that like, twice as bad?"  
  
Castiel shrugged.  
"Not necessarily. I mean, I can guard the amount I take that way, dissolve it to mostly nothing. On the other hand, a pill is a pill is a pill, you know? I just smashed them up, filtered them - thought it'd kill me, but at that stage, as I said, I just didn't care anymore. I kind of hoped, even - but no, it didn't kill me. It just took my sleep away again. Made it easier. Made the craving worse, but everything else easier. And it doesn't get me high, either, if you're worried I might enjoy myself too much."

A dry chuckle escaped Dean. He looked at Castiel with a grimace, but he didn't seem so angry anymore.  
"You're a fucking idiot, Cas."

"I know," Castiel admitted with a gentle smile, turning to look out the window again, "but I'm trying. I've slipped - twice - from my plan, the doses. I admit. It's not easy. I'm in constant pain, my nerves are... or more of they aren't; they don't exist at all, _that_ is the issue with my nerves. I'm constantly torn between wanting to eat and wanting to throw up. You make it better. I don't think about the drugs when I'm with you. Today was... harsh."

"You were there the whole time, though."

Castiel nodded.  
"As I said, I'm trying," he sighed.  
The feel of Dean's hand on his shoulder was a welcome weight. He looked at the younger and the younger was looking at him with something resembling a smile on his lips, but his eyes were still sad.

He slept close to Castiel again that night - Castiel barely rested his eyes, but the relief he felt and the closeness of the younger there with him was enough to take away most the exhaustion.


	50. September, September

**September 2014**

The angel had barely fallen asleep when the loud banging on the door began. Dean, like Castiel, jumped right up, reaching for his weapon discarded not all too far from where he'd rested his hand the whole night. He was so fresh out of sleep he couldn't think, but when things started clearing up for him, he lowered the weapon.  
"Jesus fucking Christ, Jody Mills!" he groaned, paying a moment of attention to put down his gun, "I nearly shot you through the door!"

"Which is why I'm standing right next to it and not in front of it, love. Rise and shine, both of you, we're getting guests in approximately forty minutes, Bobby wanted all of us - well, not Sam, but the rest of us - lookin' good by then."

Dean cursed.  
"Go away," he grunted, but not very angrily.  
He heard Jody laugh as she turned around and walked back downstairs. Castiel stood behind Dean, heart beating fast in his chest.  
"You okay?" the younger asked, turning to him.

The shorter grimaced, bringing a hand through his messy hair.  
"I could use a shower, if that's the kind of an okay you're looking for," he replied.

Dean smirked with a huff.  
"Okay. Fucking hell, though."

"Yeah. Quite the alarm."

"You don't say."

They took ten minutes to wake up, finding it extraordinarily hard to place correct bits of clothing over their appropriate body parts, but once that was achieved, the rest came relatively easy. There was a certain tension between them left over from yesterday that recreated a rift they couldn't cross, one that hadn't been there for a while. It felt strange to Dean, even though over the years he should have gotten more than used to it, especially considering this one was but a crack in the ground compared to the vast space that had previously stretched between them, but without that closeness he'd already gotten used to, he felt insecure, like standing in an open field.  
He didn't have much time to concentrate on that, however, as they soon joined the rest in the basement.  
"So, who are we expecting?"

"The Harvelles," Jody replied, pouring a cup of coffee for herself.

Dean blinked.  
"Oh," was everything he managed to say, but his grin - the one he'd failed, despite his best efforts, to suppress - showed clearly how happy this bit of news had made him.

"Also, spoke to the Camp again in the morning while you two good-for-nothings were still asleep," Bobby added, grumpy as usual.  
He was by the table sharpening knives (it seemed to have become a hobby of his, and a quite unnerving one at that), barely glancing up at Dean and Castiel as he spoke.  
"They expect to get the details tonight, so one of you needs to stay up to get 'em."

"I will," Castiel said straight away.  
He'd already walked to the counter and cleaned himself a cup. Dean looked at him, biting at his lower lip in a still not quite awakened state of mind, before nodding and turning back to Bobby.  
"We both will," he stated.

There was no way he would just go up and sleep while waiting, and everyone in the room knew it, especially Castiel. When he turned around to queue for the coffee, the fallen angel turned to hand him the cup he'd just filled. They communicated through faint smiles - Castiel's was like an apology or a sentimental wish of a good morning for the taller, and Dean's a surprised one that managed to betray just how in love he was with the older, no matter how fucked up he thought he was.

Jody had crossed the room to Bobby and was leaning over the table to talk to him in a very quiet voice. Dean ignored them, instead concentrating on the door behind them. That was where he went. The rusty sound of the window opening echoed in the room like a scream.

 

*

 

The floor was cold and smelled of dust. Dust was everywhere: it was on the ground, it stuck to Sam's clothes, it covered his skin and it had layered inside his throat and nostrils, forming a dryness he couldn't even cough out. He stared at the morning light shining through the ceiling and the fan that still wasn't moving like it had always before moved, around and around and around, and he could clearly see it moving in his mind even now that it was dead still.  
During the night, Bobby had come to the window. He'd opened it and then kept silent for such a long, long while that Sam had already decided he'd imagined the whole situation, and just as he'd lulled himself into the belief that nothing would happen on that front again, he'd started talking.  
He hadn't asked about Dean. He hadn't talked about the war. He hadn't spoken of the apocalypse, of Lucifer, of anything of that at all. He hadn't asked how Sam felt. Instead, he had told him, without interruption, without ever stopping to wait for an answer or a sign of life from inside, that no matter what, Sam was still the same Sam to him. That even now, he wasn't a burden, that all that mattered was that he was there and he was alive and fighting.  
He'd fallen silent and probably heard the worn sobs the younger was letting out, but it wasn't like Sam could have held them back either. He'd been so tired, so physically exhausted that he couldn't even lift his head, which was the very reason he was lying on the floor and not on the mattress still. Then, as if at such a loss for any further words that he couldn't even wish him a good night or simply tell him he'd be going, Bobby had closed the window and Sam had realised he was smiling.  
Now that the door opened, Sam wasn't certain if he'd slept at all. He felt like all his blood was lead and he could even feel it pushing forwards inside his skin. His eyes barely opened to greet the sun, and they weren't all too willing to turn towards Dean either.

The older's expression turned from concerned to extremely worried in such a hasty manner Sam didn't know if there was a transitional phase between the two at all. Dean hurried to him, nearly spilling his coffee as he laid it on the floor next to Sam when he kneeled and hit the ground probably harder than he'd intended.  
"Sam?" he breathed out.

Sam tried to perform a smile and possibly managed to flash something akin to one, as Dean seemed to spot a sign of life in him and the relief that washed over him was obvious. With effort, Sam managed to turn that smile into a proper one. He closed his eyes and let out a small sound to try his voice. It nearly functioned.  
"Morning, Dean," he croaked with that raspy excuse he had left to use.

"Hey, uh. Morning? Damn, you nearly gave me a heart-attack."  
  
The younger laughed, and laughing hurt his chest.  
"Dude," he muttered, "I think I'm developing pneumonia."

"Huh?"  
Dean sipped his coffee. Sam heard his jean-covered behind hit the floor right next to him, and even if he hadn't heard that, he would have known it from all the dust that seemed to float right on his face. He struggled to wipe it off his face, as the particles itched particularly annoyingly upon the tip of his nose.  
  
"I'm in pain," he laughed, ending that with a cough, "And it's... more natural than any before, you know?"

Dean's hand felt warm over his forehead.  
"Nah, I don't think so. You're cold, not hot."

Sam grimaced.  
He opened his eyes again and fought an elbow underneath him, dragging himself up on that. His back hit the wall behind him and his hip rubbed painfully against the floor, but he couldn't adjust any better. He truly did feel like he was made of something heavy and rigid, not flesh and joints that were supposed to bend when he wanted them to. He coughed and felt sweat gathering on his skin again. To his surprise, the craving was gone now. The only thing that remained was the _sickness_ , and the shadows still dancing across his vision every now and then. He'd nearly learned to ignore them by now.

"Don't think you'll be fit to see friends today," Dean muttered.

"Definitely not," Sam agreed.  
Even in this position he was already swaying - he could either just lie on his back or on his stomach, it wasn't even possible to stay like this on his side. Dean sighed, laid down his cup and grabbed his arms.

"Come on, let's get you back on the bed, okay?"

Achieving that was so hard that Castiel appeared by the door to check on them, the amount of pained groans and failed footings and grunts they produced in the process had clearly been alarming to him. With his help, however, they did get Sam all the way on the bed again.

"Sam? You look like you could use a cup of what we're having," the angel huffed, wiping his forehead with his bare arm.

Sam scanned him and realised he was wearing Dean's shirt.  
"I'd appreciate that, yeah," he managed weakly with a smile on his face.

"Dude," Dean sighed, having fetched his own coffee and sat down on the mattress right next to Sam again, "I think you need to start getting better now."

Sam closed his eyes and swallowed thickly.  
"Kind of harder than I thought, actually," he replied, still with that smile present.

 

*

**  
Sometime in 2012, during the official seven months of nobody-owns-a-freaking-calendar**

The sound the metal made when Dean slammed his hand on it was heavy and threatening in Castiel's ears. He'd come to realise he was far from keen of anything new, but this? This made him excited. At the same time, it made him nervous and it made him scared.

 _You need to learn to drive._ _Can't afford a man who can't drive, you know?_

They couldn't afford him, period. But there was a certain spark in Dean's eyes that told Castiel he was just as excited as, perhaps even more than, Castiel himself was.  
The Impala was still in an okay condition, give or take. They'd brought it in along with the rest of things from the previous temporary safe spot, which had been cleared of croats part by sheer willpower and part by forces of nature since they'd arrived at Chitaqua. For the environment they had relocated to the car was absolutely useless, but Castiel knew why Dean had chosen it for this occasion regardless of the fact. Surprisingly, practical reasons reached above sentimentality on the list, as after all this was the car Dean knew the best and the one he could _teach_ the best, but there was no denying that part the reason was that he felt it was _right_ for them. He looked at the angel by his side like a family member so the Impala, in a sense, also belonged to Castiel.

 _(How ironic, retrospectively, how much this had changed. Or had it? Had it_ really _changed? Dean covered up some of his feelings and thoughts too well. Would he ever have been so badly wounded by anyone who_ wasn't _his family? His family had that strange habit of betraying and disappointing him - at least from his point of view it had to be so.)_

The roads were alright to drive on, one couldn't yet tell that they had been abandoned. They would get worse, of course, especially after the inevitable conditions of winter had left their mark on them, not to mention the rains of autumn and the cracking dry of the coming summer's heat. The timing was perfect. Everything was still _alright -_  normal - easy to manage. So when Castiel sat on the front seat next to Dean who would first show him just how the thing worked and the car took off, it moved quietly and smoothly along the road. They scared off some deer, but there were relatively few of those about in the middle of the day.

_Keep your eyes on the road. Be alert for everything. Don't go too fast but for Christ's sake, don't go too slow either, it's better to go a little too fast than a little too slow. Stay cautious about the damn gas - especially on this car - we'll get you something you'll manage better. And if you crash my baby, I'm going to strangle you._

Castiel wondered how much of this was the exact same speech Dean had given to Sam. In his mind there was no doubt he was the second one Dean had taught to drive this thing. John wouldn't have had the time, nor the patience, to teach Sam. It gave him an aching feeling and burdened him with an unknown level of expectations: he'd need to overdo, but not by too much, Sam's achievements on his first drive - if he'd be worse, in Dean's mind it would seem as if he failed very badly, yet if he'd outdo Sam by just that much they would in the younger's mind appear about the same. He couldn't shine too bright either, as that would give Dean a reason to dwell upon Sam all the more than he already did, although it was the silent kind of mourning that he couldn't allow himself to show. Worse yet, there was a chance that by being so much better than Sam had been, Castiel might have even insulted Dean, as in his heart the younger brother had a special, sacred place that could not be tarnished by someone attempting to become better than he had been.

Driving was strange. Castiel had never really given it a thought before, but managing a metal beast like that was unnatural. It must have been even to humans who were used and even designed for managing tools, which a car was in its essence: a very developed tool but a tool nonetheless. Angels, on the other hand, weren't supposed to manage tools. They controlled machines when absolutely necessary by other means. Applying pressure upon the pedals in just the right amounts via managing the muscles that did not belong to him in the first place, turning the wheel to turn the tires in order for them to do what he wished... it was overwhelming. He wasn't used to doing things like this with his body. He wasn't used to doing things with a body to begin with, and this was hardcore - he couldn't _think_ , he just had to _do_ , and all of this was quite stressful considering that even walking took him thinking sometimes. Dean, at first, seemed almost regretful he'd decided to do this at all. Then he couldn't stop laughing. To Castiel, the second was a lot better, even if it did make him feel ashamed.

They spent the day on the road.  
The fallen angel had even lost his ability to learn fast, as when they returned to the camp, he still had no idea how to drive a car on his own. Dean laid a hand on his shoulder when he noticed him brooding. Told him it was okay; that nobody learned to drive a car in a single damn day.  
He did manage a smile from Castiel, and that day the recently discovered lake had allowed them a full meal, already prepared by the time they reached the main cabin.

It was one of the last good days for them. By the time Castiel could drive a car no worse than the rest of them, Dean had changed so much he never even noticed. He just demanded it to be so and expected the rest to fall in place - or else.

 

*

 

**September 2014**

Dean stood outside with Bobby by his side, of course seated in his wheelchair but to the younger still seeming like he was taller in stature. Despite the cloudy uniform white sky, the weather was hot and humid and called for heavy thunder later on. Wind carried about dust along the road under them. No grass grew on most parts of the salvage yard, the ground remained too hard for fertility.  
They were waiting for the Harvelles, who'd announced they'd be about around this time of the day. Indoors, Castiel and Jody had taken over cooking: they seemed to get together well enough. Castiel even seemed to accept being bossed around by her, which for Dean was more of an awkward thing he'd rather avoid. For some reason the angel surely didn't seem to mind it at all. Dean had chosen to come out with Bobby mainly because he felt like he wanted some time with the man outdoors, no matter how freezingly uncomfortable the situation would get, but perhaps there was also the faintest shade of trying to avoid the whole domestic mess indoors that had driven him to the conclusion.

Even then, the two of them hadn't talked yet, not a single word after ten minutes of staying still.  
It was about to change now, although getting his voice to work out right was surprisingly hard for Dean in Bobby's company.

"You know," he started, shifting and trying to look anywhere but at the man next to him, "I... appreciate the help. With Pestilence, with - with everything. Sam, and just letting us stay. I don't deserve it."

"Yeah."  
Bobby leaned back and adjusted his cap.  
"Yeah, you don't. But you know what, I think at this stage, you better know that... I don't really give a rat's ass about what you deserve and what you don't. And don't take that the wrong way - we don't need to have a _moment_ here, I'm just saying that it's better to concentrate on _now_ and get something done instead of clinging to what's past and done."

Dean swallowed. He looked at the ground with a hint of a smile, wondering what the hell his heart was doing because for one, it wasn't working as intended. He'd suspected as much as Bobby's words had now told him out loud, but hearing the older actually say those things to him in his own words, in that bothered manner he spoke of such things, was a damn relief still.  
"Thank you."

"I told you, boy, don't comment."  
  
"I said nothing."  
  
"Nothing. Yeah, that's about right."

Dean was still smiling when a sudden breeze of wind carried the first raindrops down on them.  
"Damn," the younger let out instinctively, pushing his hands down his pockets as if it would somehow keep him dry.

Bobby stared at him.  
"You scared of getting wet these days?"

Dean grimaced.  
"I've barely seen a dry day in months, Bobby, that's all. Getting tired of the monsoons."

The older huffed.  
"Been dry enough 'round these parts if you ask me."

There was nothing for Dean to say to that. The raindrops falling on him were few but heavy and exploded at contact, shedding tiny drops everywhere, but wherever they fell on the ground it was clear that Bobby was right about what he'd said; amongst the water droplets projected by the larger full drops imploding upon the earth, there was a lot of fine dry dust spreading around as well.

"So... what's between you and Jody?" he asked after a moment.

A crooked smile flashed upon the older man's face, but Dean didn't see it. He stared towards the gate unblinking, or as unblinking as he could be with all the rain landing on the bridge of his nose.  
"Lots of things," Bobby replied simply.  
He clearly wasn't going to define further.  
For the first time during the whole stay - hell, for the first time in years - they shared the sort of a silence that wasn't strained but almost amused, like there was a common secret between them. Ironically enough, Dean wasn't exactly _in_ on said secret, but the atmosphere made him feel like it was his in essence, too.

At that moment, the sound of wheels finally carried up to them. They both raised their heads in alert, expecting; and then it was there, the greenish blue truck they'd been waiting for. It rolled slowly onwards until it came to a halt a few feet away from them. Bobby went to it, Dean at his heels - from the passenger's side door, Jo slid out gracefully, landing on the ground without a sound. She'd cut her hair short and her clothes looked like they'd served her well, and Dean noticed straight away the healing cut over her jaw that would leave a nasty scar behind, but when her eyes landed on him, her smile was as it had always been.  
"Dean?" she gasped, then shot straight to hug him.  
Dean, surprised, wrapped his arms around her and instinctively sought out Ellen from the other side of the car.

The older woman was grinning.  
"Been a while," she greeted him before going to Bobby, "Where can we stash this thing?"  
She patted the car and Bobby nodded vaguely to their right, grunting something that Dean missed. Ellen hopped back in and drove off.

At this point, Jo finally released Dean.  
"We heard you died, but Bobby disagreed," she said breathlessly.

Dean shrugged.  
"I'm alive," he commented, not quite knowing what else to say to that.

"What are you _doing_ here?"

Bobby scoffed.  
"That's a long story, and we'll save it for the dinner table. Speaking of which - come on in, I'm _starving._ "

Dean wished he could have gotten just the smallest moment in private with Bobby, but Jo was all over him, wanting to hear everything he really didn't want to share and more. Before they reached the hidden entrance, he'd somehow managed to sidetrack the conversation from his business to the general affairs of the world, a subject he still had half an appetite for.

"Okay, so, there's this one detail you should know," Dean uttered in a choked voice.  
The front door opened and closed with Ellen walking into their line of sight soon enough. Jo went to her - not too far, and Dean felt like it was probably his duty to explain, since Bobby wasn't taking part in the conversation from next to him.  
"We have - we have Sam. I don't know if you were informed. He's not okay, and if he suddenly - I don't know, just suddenly anything at all - then please -"

"Just ignore him," Bobby finished, "I know, I know, this sounds ten kinds of crazy and whatnot, but we've got time to go through whatever's necessary later and right now, it's damn right necessary for me to _eat_ , so let's talk another time."

Dean felt like he was still choking. He glanced at Bobby and Bobby shrugged at him. Ellen and Jo both stared at the two of them, expecting more of an explanation than they'd been offered thus far. Dean ignored them and turned to open the door instead, hoping they'd at least be inclined to follow them down despite having to bear the presence of Lucifer's vessel.

The thought burned the tall man like acid pouring inside his chest as he walked down the ramp.


	51. An Amateur Mistake (And One Disappearing Door)

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ 

Sam stood by the door, leaning to the frame. He felt weak - tired, cold, hungry, still craving - but overall much more lucid and in control than usual, and there were no damn shadows anywhere either. Aside the occasional, strange nails-dragging-along-the-walls kind of a sound that he kept hearing every now and then, nerve-wrecking and awful as it was, he seemed to be free of hallucinations completely. And maybe, just maybe, that wasn't a hallucination either. There was no way to tell unless someone would come inside and the sound would repeat itself, something that it might not do for hours: he didn't really care. He wanted out. He wanted air that didn't smell of iron and rust, and he wanted something to eat, but most of all... he didn't want to be the freak.

With a heavy sigh, he knocked on the iron door, loud enough for the sound to carry over the chatter from the other room but not quite loud enough to be distracting. He knew Dean would hear it; Dean always, _always_ had one ear tuned to his frequency. Usually it was uncomfortable but right now he felt thankful for it.

He waited, hearing one of the chairs not all that far away grind against the floor, and then nothing for a bit aside the continued voices of those dining. Soon enough however the window was wrestled open and Dean's green eyes stared at him from beyond the bars, questioning and a little worried.  
"Everything okay, Sammy?" he asked, fingertips appearing at the base of the window.

Sam felt a crooked smile pass upon his lips and shrugged.  
"Kind of embarrassed, you know?" he chuckled, brushing back his hair, "I was just - I know I shouldn't ask, know you shouldn't listen to me, yeah - but I just kind of... do I have to sit in here? I feel fine."

Dean turned and Sam's heart sunk, feeling like it must have slipped from its pouch and right down his leg. The oddly specific sensation disappeared when Dean turned back to examine him. The older's expression changed from doubtful to conflicted and from conflicted to torn before he covered it up with a full-on perfect poker face and, finally, a smile.  
"You do look like you could use a shower. And no offense, but you also _smell_ like it."

Sam chuckled tiredly.  
"Yeah, no kidding. Just imagine how I _feel_."

With a sigh Dean lowered his gaze and then turned again, staring towards the table for a bit. The chatter had quieted down.  
"Give me a second, Sammy," he then simply said before calling out for Bobby.

Sam's back hit the frame again while he waited for the judgement to be passed. It took a moment, during which the metallic scraping sound got louder for a while and then disappeared, but almost immediately after, the door was unlocked and Dean stood in the way.  
Sam turned to him and they shared an eye contact, Sam questioning and Dean decisive, serious; then the older motioned him to follow.  
"I'll show you where we bathe," he informed the younger, and Sam followed him past the table, feeling extremely conscious about his every movement so as to not let them see, smell or otherwise note him too much.

To his relief, the guests as well as the hosts had enough courtesy to not stare - even Castiel had turned his whole attention to Jo. Seeing them would have made Sam happy in any other situation but right now he pushed the need to contact them back in order to get himself in a more presentable shape. Shame still burned hot on his cheekbones when they exited the basement with Dean.

"There's a shower down there, too," Dean noted, "and an actual working toilet. But the shower's broken right now so it's not going to do much good to us."

Sam made a sound to acknowledge the older's words, but his concentration was divided between the fresh air and all the space that was not the panic room anymore, and the metallic sound that kept following him. He wondered if he should maybe say something about it, but he just couldn't get the words out: after all, he'd _just_ gotten out. He'd at least take the shower and say hi to the familiar faces miraculously there with them, and then he could lock himself up again to listen to the sounds in the walls. Just this while... he would be able to deal with it. He wouldn't flip, would he? He'd been in control for more than a day now, so what were the chances?

Nervousness followed him like a shadow, gnawing at his spine and sending shivers up and down his body whenever he least expected it as they kept walking, all the way to the salvage yard and behind it. There was the shack where they'd fixed cars back in the day; Bobby's workspace was still intact and looked like it was still being used, at least not all that much dust had gathered on top of anything. A dirty truck was parked in there, and by the wet wheels Sam deduced it was probably the vehicle the Harvelles used.

"Okay," Dean finally stopped and turned towards him at the back of the room, nodding towards the rugged red door next to them, "Here on in. I'll sit here and make sure you don't go crazy and join the wolves in the forest or anything. Be brief, people probably want to shower today and there's not all that much water in the thing."

Sam nodded. He hesitated for a moment, feeling like he should probably say something more, but since nothing dawned to him he finally just shrugged and entered the room. It didn't look anything like a bathroom, it looked like a cement-floored, cleared out storage room - which it was - but there was the showerhead attached to the wall and a crude sewer in the middle, so it would probably serve the purpose just fine.  
  
"Right, you should probably use my towel. Didn't bring yours," the older spoke from behind Sam.

With a grimace and a grunted out okay, Sam closed the door on him and rid himself of his clothes.  
"Dean?" he called soon after, however.

"Yeah?"

"The towel's not an issue, but - I'm going to need new clothes."  
  
"Shit."

"Yeah. So bring that and, uh, the towel since you're headed there - okay?"

"Sam, I can't freaking leave you here alone."

Sam rolled his eyes, leaning to the door.  
"Padlock the damn door if you have to, the whole point of showering will be nulled if I pull these rags on again," he declared.

Dean shifted outside.  
He sighed, took a step towards some direction, then another, and sat down on the car - at least if the creaking could be used as an indication. Perhaps, though, given the height of the car, he'd simply leaned onto it. Sam didn't really care.  
"Sam."

"Yeah? C'mon, Dean."

"Don't you fucking disappear on me."

Sam lowered his gaze and smiled sadly.  
"I won't, I swear."  
He'd broken that oath more than once before, but this time... this time he had no intention to run. Where would he go? The forest? And what then, on to the dead town? There wasn't anywhere he would be better off - nowhere he could find what he needed, craved, wanted; so what would it take to get him out?  
"Do you really think I want to go out there _naked_?" he grunted, half amused and half bitter.

He couldn't help chuckling when Dean laughed.  
"I guess not. Stand by, Sammy, I'll be back in a bit."

Sam listened to him go, shivering in the cold of the room for a bit before waking up to the reality that he did indeed need to shower. He did his best to ignore the metal claws clawing at the walls from the outside, circling him like a predator ready to strike but settled to cruelly play with its prey instead, and settled to stand underneath the showerhead as he turned on the flow. Cold water sprinkled on him from above and he closed his eyes, hoping the sound would drown out the other but instead, the claws just got louder. He grunted, pressed his hands over his ears and drowned out everything, just breathing in and out for a while until his body was numb from the cold and he had to start washing in order to not freeze. When his hands slid off his ears, the sound was gone.  
In relief, he sighed and opened his eyes again.

The room was unnaturally dark.

Sam raised his gaze to the window near the ceiling, but it seemed to glow with light just like before - the difference was that the light wasn't reaching _inside_ the room at all, like there was an invisible wall blocking it from entering.  
Slowly, he turned off the water and reached for Dean's towel to get something on before investigating; however, when he turned around, he found himself face to face with Lucifer.  
The sight made his heart skip a beat and turned his blood into ice, stunned him and his gasp for air was cut sharply from the middle so that his throat burned; he stumbled backwards and against the wall and tried to find the door, but there was no door. Not anymore.

"Sammy, Sammy, where do you think you're going?" the angel spoke with a smile on his face, slowly stepping closer, cornering him, "So sorry I took so long returning... but surely you'll forgive me."

Forcing himself calm like a metaphorical zen pond, Sam drew breath and let it out slowly, repeating in his mind that this wasn't real, so therefore, Lucifer wasn't real, and in a moment Dean would come with the damn towel and open the door that he currently was unable to locate.

"Human mind is a funny thing, don't they say that, Sammy?"  
Lucifer was so close Sam could feel his aura against his body, and the man swallowed, turning his head away to stare at the doorless wall.  
"'Funny' in the same way a bad egg is funny. You wrap it so nice and tight and it holds a certain value, but it can be ten kinds of rotten inside. Like yours is. Well scrambled."

Sam wished he could have just closed his eyes, but it was impossible. Even blinking was almost so, he was afraid that the moment he'd close his eyes, the apparition in front of him would take over him again, like putting down his guard for a fraction of a second would be _just_ enough to give consent.  
"You're not real."

Lucifer rolled his eyes and let out a frustrated sigh.  
"Didn't we go through this the last time? Sam - you're more clever than that. But hey, if you want, we can play games. Definitely. Games are what you like, right? Remember the girls from Chicago, you sure liked _that_ game. Oh, but we don't have any girls here tonight. Hm. What would it be, then?"

The angel eyed him for a while and Sam tried his best to simultaneously not vomit and not blink and not swallow. Most of all, he tried to stay still and not show any sign of fear, no matter how obvious it already was that he was afraid. Finally, the archangel clicked his tongue and turned, raising a hand.  
"Sorry to say Sammy," he spoke softly, "but I think the game's on you tonight. See ya - and don't be afraid to call, you know, it's just a matter of a _word_..."

He was... gone. Sam blinked, swallowed, shivered and gasped for air, wildly turning his head about to find him, to see whatever had changed - nothing had - and then, he fumbled around again for the door that still was not there. He turned his head to stare at the wall and then, panic rising inside him once more, started to feel about it with his palms and fingers both. To his shock he heard Dean from the other side of the wall, heard his baffled 'what the fuck' and then his hands on the wall, trying to look for the door as well, and he realised that the door really _was not_ there - it was gone - and if it was gone, then Lucifer was real, and -

He turned, smelling smoke.

Somehow, the cement floor was burning from the corner, and the flames were rising fast, bitter-smelling smoke already filling up the room. His eyes flashed to the window at the base of the ceiling.  
  
There really was no choice, was there? A burning feeling rose from his own guts up his throat in response to the poisonous air he breathed in.  
Without thinking, he grabbed the wooden chair upon which he'd dumped his clothing and carried it under the window. He'd bleed, for sure, after this... but if the choices he had were to burn alive or to bleed but live, he'd definitely choose the latter.

*

Dean laid a hand on the door after knocking. He threw the towel over his shoulder and drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes and for the one last damn time called out his brother's name, an iceberg forming steadily in the pit of his stomach and rising up towards his chest. Its peak poked at his heart to speed it up just enough to make his whole chest hurt from the pounding as he pressed down the handle and pushed aside the door.

The room was empty - aside for the clothes scattered on the wet floor, the knocked-over chair, and the blood and shattered glass all over the place.

For a split second, Dean was torn between two emotions: the shock that would follow was only dawning and instead of it, part of him wanted to throw the towel on the floor and butcher something - anything - while another wanted to sigh and sit down on the floor to cry.

When the panic came, both of those moods were pushed aside with neither having the smallest of opportunities to take lead in him.  
  
He dropped everything he'd carried on the floor and ran as fast as he could around the garage, followed the drops of blood to the very edge of the forest and realised he would need help - he didn't find any more tracks to follow from within the fifteen foot area he searched and afraid he'd take the wrong direction, he turned back and ran back to the house instead.  
He wrestled aside the hidden door and had no idea what he said, how he announced the problem, but everyone got up nevertheless. Everyone, of course, except for Bobby, who took his wheelchair to the other room to do something Dean simply had no thoughts to spare for. They headed back out, all five of them, and Dean showed them just where the track had ended.

"Pairs for safety?" Castiel asked him, holding him by the shirt to make sure he didn't just charge off like he'd so clearly intended to do.

Dean turned to look at him like they'd never met before, bewildered and panting from all the running around the grounds, and then relaxed.

"Yeah, pairs for safety. Everyone armed? _Do not_ hurt him. I don't think he's dangerous. I don't think he can even defend himself which is _really_ bad under our current conditions, so _don't you hurt him_. Jo with Ellen, Cas with Sheriff; I know Sam and the grounds so I'm okay by myself. Clear?"  
  
The rest exchanged looks - all with their intended partners - and finally nodded.  
"Good. Back by nightfall, no matter what. Clear?"

"Clear," Ellen confirmed.  
She'd taken Jo's hand and, to Dean's minor, pushed-aside surprise, Jo hadn't complained.

"The only exception being, of course, the fearless leader himself," Castiel muttered under his breath, releasing Dean's shirt and moving off.

Dean glared at him.

"Go," he finally ordered and turned around, picking the course he'd calculated was the most likely one for Sam to have chosen.  
In the distance, he could hear the thunder again, as if the situation just had to get worse than it already was.


	52. Brothers

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Where was he?

There were trees all around Sam, the area seeming to not be any that he remembered seeing before. The wall of rock in front of him rose higher than he could get his neck to bend in order to view, but there was space between a couple of the larger rocks that had fallen from the solid stone above that he could crawl into. That was what he did, too.  
"You," he breathed out, stretching out his arm first and then his leg to examine the wounds on them, "are an idiot, Sam Winchester."

The worst weren't there, however. The worst were on his abdomen, the part he'd scraped to the broken glass climbing out the window, and on his hands with which he'd taken a hold of the frames to pull himself out.  
He hadn't even found the damn house - instead, he'd found _the forest_. And instead of turning around like any reasonable person would have done, he'd just charged right the hell in, because he'd _feared_ the fire was following him. Now, how likely had it been that the fire had been _following him out of the shower room?_ Not all that damn likely.  
Either way, it sure had seemed likely then. Now it just seemed stupid, and even more so when he considered the facts that he was both utterly lost and far enough from Bobby's place to remain so as well as naked and covered in still bleeding wounds.

Yeah. What was it he'd told Dean again? That he wouldn't disappear - that he was naked, that he probably didn't want to run out like that? Yet there he was, cowering between rocks like a scared child, bleeding, and very much naked.

Brilliant.

He tried listening: by now, Dean would have figured out he was gone, and he did trust them to come looking. He wasn't sure which was worse, hearing something or not hearing anything at all: the first would mean that he'd have to suffer the shame of facing the rest of them (and ashamed he was, too), yet the alternative was to be stuck here waiting for some kind of a sign that might never come at all.  
  
With a shiver, he hid his head between his knees and wished the ground would swallow him whole.  
Could he possibly get more pathetic than this? Was there any level of low which he hadn't yet personally discovered? Truly, if there was it had to be one that no one else had ever fallen to, and he really did not want to become the first.

When he heard the footsteps nearby, he didn't for a moment hope or believe they were anyone else's but the fallen archangel's. He merely raised his head in expectation to come face to face with him when he'd kneel in front of the hiding place. Sam felt too tired for his games, and for the first time since escaping, he considered giving up. Bleeding and running, starving and being deprived of sleep almost entirely for days had clearly served the purpose, but the shame was what drove the desire the most. After all, what worse could he still do? Which was better, to take the fight back in - even if he didn't believe there would be a fight at all and would lie if he stated that as the reason why - or to stay and complicate matters even further?

Lucifer settled by the mouth of the hole he was sheltering in.  
The angel looked at him with what resembled real affection and sorrow at what he was seeing. Sam, while not falling for the trick, lowered his gaze and felt the punch in his guts. Pity was the very last thing he needed to see. Pity from Lucifer, the lord of deception, was something he'd make sure he did _not_ see.

"You must understand," the intruder stated softly, "I wouldn't wish to hurt you. You are important to me, Sam. You know you are. Unlike to anyone else... to me, you aren't a burden. But you're _so stupid._ You run from me even though you know I'm the best option you have. Your... only real option, if I may."

He laid his hand upon the entrance of the small cave and Sam instinctively pulled further back. There was no space for him to go to however, so he only managed to squish closer to the cold stone. His wounds ached and so did his head, but his eyes were upon Lucifer now and he wasn't letting the other out of his sight.

"Now, now, Sammy; what do you think you'd gain from running to _them_? They're no good for you - they don't even want you here. You're in their way. You're in the way of their plans, their - their romance. You know that."

"Just leave," Sam breathed out.  
He squeezed a cut on his arm and blew air at it, hoping the blood would tie the skin together faster. At the same time, he still watched Lucifer. The air was cool and he was already trembling from cold: if the night would follow as cold as the evening was turning, he'd be in trouble. Even without Lucifer, that was, but for some reason the night's dangers felt more inevitable than a death by an archangel. Surely, his death was the last thing the angel desired.

Sam wasn't prepared for the tight, painful grip around his wrist, and when Lucifer pulled him closer, he stumbled right out of the corner he'd crawled into and half back into the open. Too fast for him, the angel had already laid his other hand over his free wrist and tied them both down to the ground. Pebbles pressed into his skin and dirt mixed in with his blood and got into the cuts; Sam grimaced and tried to pull himself free, feeling absolutely ridiculous the way he was, and his shame burned about as hot as the fear that flooded his veins now burned with cold.

"Not scared of me?"  
The older's lips were much too close to his ear by now. Much, much too close. Sam struggled again but to his shock found himself nearly unable to move at all.  
"You should be. You really, really, really should be, Sam... Remember what you did to me. I haven't forgotten. I gave you a choice, and I'm still waiting for an answer."

"The answer," Sam growled, struggling, "is still no. And it won't change."

His wrists were free. He pulled himself up and was soon standing - Lucifer remained crouching, but he looked up at Sam with a hostile smile on his face.  
"Then," he spoke, "we just have to play more games."

With a simple movement of his hand he flung the taller man right against the rock behind him. The impact forced all air out of Sam and exhaustion made his vision black out.

*

Dean sat down on the cold surface of the stone sitting smack in the middle of nothing in particular. His gaze scanned the area without seeing anything - he wasn't even sure what he was looking for anymore. He glanced up and saw the blackness of a mass of stormclouds moving ever closer. Even if he'd turn back now, he wouldn't make it back to Bobby's without getting wet. Not like that ever had been an option, especially knowing there was the very real possibility that Sam was out there unsheltered - _naked_ \- and the storm was on. If it would come to that, he'd probably find shelter for himself to fend off the weather, but he'd fend it off here, not somewhere nice and warm knowing he should be out here looking still. He'd already marked out two spots nearby from memory that could come handy if a downpour caught up with him soon. If it wouldn't happen that soon, then there were three more within a three-mile radius, and one relatively close by in which he could even spend the night if he'd have to.

With some effort, Dean pulled himself back up and continued on. He cleared his throat and started jogging, shouting Sam's name into the forest that echoed it back. At first, his heart had stopped each and every time he'd heard the echo, and jumped right in his throat when he'd heard someone else yell for Sam, but now, he was too far to hear anyone else and his own echo had grown dull. Not too far ahead stood the tall rocks dividing this side of the forest with the side he'd been in less, but they'd been hunting there when he'd been a kid and he still knew it well enough to venture in if Sam wasn't nearby here. It looked like he wasn't, though. The creek was untouched, no stones had been turned and no prints had been left in the mud. He jumped over it, slipped and hit his knee. Underneath the fabric of his pants he felt the skin tear open and he cursed, climbing back up and continuing nonetheless - a small scrape wasn't going to stop him.

He crossed the remaining distance of straight, thin trees lined up for maximum gathering efficiency, feet light and quiet - if he'd learned something, anything, from going hunting for deer back in the day, it was that he had to move quietly if he wanted to find something.  
Right now he was pretty sure Sam would flip and flee if he'd hear anyone approaching, so there was a risk he really didn't want to take especially considering that so far his luck had been good for next to nothing. He'd even quit shouting now; what were the chances Sam hadn't heard him the first fifteen times if he was nearby?

The shape of the rocks ahead grew taller and darker the closer he got and the closer the mass of clouds got. However, at the base of them, he saw a shape that made his heart skip a beat.  
"Sam," he breathed out, and then he ran.

He wished he'd taken any of the clothes or even the damn towel with him, but of course he hadn't - and right now, it was still too early to even consider how to get Sam clothed, given that he couldn't say for sure just how inclined the younger would be to come with him.  
Oddly enough, the man paid Dean no attention at all, like he wasn't hearing him coming. Dean slowed down only when he was close enough to touch Sam should he wish to do so, and then came to a complete hesitant halt when Sam still reacted with absolutely no sign of life whatsoever. He was kneeling, face covered with his still dirty strands of hair and looking down, arms around his knees and knees looking like he'd crawled all the way there.

"Hey, Sam, you - you hear me?" Dean called out slowly in confusion.  
Whatever he'd expected, it certainly wasn't the response he got.

"Yeah. Yeah, I hear you, Dean."

The younger's voice was broken and he was shivering with cold, a detail that made his vowels tremble, but he sounded just about perfectly sane and generally unlike what one would expect from a man who was kneeling naked, covered in cuts and bruises and looking like he'd fallen off the damn rock next to him, on the ground in the middle of a forest he barely knew at all.

Slowly and never abandoning the readiness for self-defense, Dean kneeled down next to Sam, pulling off the plaid shirt from over his worn tee as he moved. He hung it over the younger's shoulders and wrapped it around him, and Sam reacted by reaching for the fabric and holding it still. He didn't look like he had any intentions whatsoever to actually _wear_ it, but as long as he was covered, Dean could put it aside for the time being.

"Damn it, Sam, what the hell happened?" he asked.  
By all means he should have been angry - hell, he should have been livid - but he was just worried and under the ever growing need to get them both out of the forest before the storm would come. There wasn't too much time left anymore until then, as he could already hear the thunder from way back. Another front had briefly visited them earlier but it had gone before twenty minutes had passed; this one sounded and looked like it would stay at least overnight.

The taller man chuckled. It wasn't laughter, it was a cynical reaction to what he'd thought, and Dean waited in case he'd feel like sharing. Of course he didn't.  
The older grabbed Sam's shoulders and pulled him up.

"We're gonna have to share, okay?" he said, eyes on the cuts on the younger's abdomen and then back upon his face, but Sam still wasn't look at him - in fact, his head was turned the other direction entirely - so it didn't mean much.  
"It's gonna rain and - and really, you can't go anywhere naked. So, uh, you think you can fit your massiveness into my jeans? No? Yeah? I think you've lost weight - it's worth the try, right?"

_C'mon man, talk to me, damnit._

If one of them had to make the way back without pants on, it was damn well him and not Sam who'd already stayed out here too long without any. But Sam wasn't talking, so Dean resorted to just doing as he'd thought; he pulled off his jeans and ignored the manner every single hair on his body stood up from contact to the cool air, and then he pushed the pants on Sam's knees and patted them expectingly. Sam looked at them slowly, then moved his fingers loosely around the fabric and stood up. Dean looked elsewhere while he dressed, hoping it hadn't been a choice between which of them would look more ridiculous when they'd get back and also that they'd make it to the shower room before anyone would notice them so that all of the previous would be void once they'd get back in their own clothes.  
He jumped when Sam's hand landed on his shoulder and instinctively he looked straight at him expectingly, but the younger was just hanging on for balance. When he'd pulled the tight jeans up and closed the zipper (the button didn't quite reach far enough), he finally raised his gaze to Dean. Dean attempted a smile and took a hold of his arm, prompting him to move.

For a moment, he seemed afraid of taking the first step and even after when he'd got that far he seemed shocked, as if he'd expected an excruciating pain that never came - Dean watched him carefully for a while as they started making their way back, but the taller seemed dead inside and certainly wasn't letting anything out.

"D'you think we'll be able to sneak back in without running into the rest? I don't even know if they're looking anymore. Probably they aren't. I told them to get back before nightfall and, well, uh..."

Sam glanced at the sky. A drop of water exploded on his cheek and he lowered his gaze again. Their steps turned faster and less careful as they hurried up to escape the inevitable rainfall.  
"Why do you even care?" the younger asked wornly after a moment.

Dean glanced at him, stumbled on a root and hopped awkwardly forwards for a couple steps. Sam took a single longer step and never fell behind him.  
"Because you're m-"

"Not that same old excuse, Dean. I mean honestly, why do you put up with this? It's not just because I'm your brother, that alone just isn't worth it anymore. Is it because of dad? Do you think you're failing him if you let me die?"

Dean stopped like he'd walked directly into an invisible yet very solid wall. He pulled Sam under a thick pine and held him by the shirt he was barely wearing.  
"Because," he breathed out, holding back a wave of fearful anger, "you're my brother, and I love you. Because at the end of the day, _none of this_ is your fault."

Sam huffed. A smile wavered upon his paler-than-usual lips and he sighed heavily.  
"Say it," he spoke quietly.

Dean didn't know what the hell he was supposed to say, so he just held Sam a little tighter for a second. Then his fingers fell loose around the cloth of his own shirt and his hand fell limp to his side, the burns aching a little from the stretch.

Sam looked at him again.  
"Say it. Say whose fault it is, because I know you're thinking it."

"I'm not thinking anythi-"  
  
"It's not _your_ fault, Dean. I made those choices on my own. I had my reasons. I failed. I'm stupid, I'm weak, and I failed. You owe me nothing."

With that, he turned and started walking. Dean reached to grab the shirt's back but missed and had to catch up by running.  
"Sam," he snapped, "wait."

"It's raining."  
  
"Fuck if I don't know, Sam. You can't just frickin' walk off like that. You just - you just can't."

"I'm not walking off, I'm walking on. There's a difference."  
  
Dean wanted to punch him. Then he did, square on the back and hard enough to bruise, as if the other had lacked one more from his collection. Sam stumbled on a few steps and turned, both angry and confused, to look at him. He'd finally stopped, but the rain was falling harder and the thunder was catching up with them fast.  
They stared at one another, both seemingly incapable of forming words. Dean saw it in Sam, the subject he was avoiding - whatever had happened and triggered this episode, perhaps even continued after. He ended up not saying anything, instead stepping forwards and taking the lead. Sam followed him.  
"You know," he mumbled, already wet from the rain after perhaps only ten minutes had passed, "We look really damn ridiculous."

The younger let out a dry laughter, but it sounded like he'd regained his soul between now and the last time he'd spoken. Or if not the whole thing, then at least some pieces of it.  
  
"We do."

*

Nobody saw them enter the premises, so they slid back in the shed and switched clothes; Sam handed Dean back his jeans and his shirt and took the shower he'd nearly finished before running off, but only while Dean stood inside the room, both of them trying their best to not step into the glass. Dean didn't ask and pretended all of this was normal, allowing Sam to feel embarrassed and weak in peace and quiet. As long as the deal got finished and they'd be able to walk back in like nothing had ever happened, he was okay.  
He stood as if in guard still when Sam dressed up and hauled the bag up on his shoulder. Then they started off towards the house, the younger holding his shirt up from the side he bled the most from to avoid staining it right away.

"No offense but I'm locking you back in," the older grunted quietly, covering his head with the shirt Sam had worn to fend off the rain.

Sam had resumed not replying to whatever he was saying and stood by this decision. They climbed up upon the porch and Dean kicked at the door in place of a knock.  
No sounds carried outside but the muddy footprints around them spoke of someone being inside. To Dean's surprise, and perhaps Sam's as well although it was impossible to tell from his expressionless face, Bobby was the one opening the door for them.  
The man glanced from each of them to the other and back again for a few times before casually flipping out a bottle of holy water and sprinkling them with it. Dean stared. Sam didn't react.

"Okay, you're clear, come in."

"What, so you're skipping the whole cutting and chanting phase? Are you sure you can risk that?" Dean asked, stepping inside after the eldest had moved off from the way.

Bobby glared at him, all the while already turning and leading the way downstairs. He never answered the question. Sam's fingertips brushed over Dean's shoulder and when the older looked back at him, he seemed paper white and had yet to take a step forwards from the door.

"Hey, uh, Bobby?" Dean called out to the man, "Could you leave the entry open, we're gonna make a short trip upstairs with Sam to sort ourselves out first."

"Sure," Bobby shrugged, "As long as neither of you runs off again and we can resume dinner, I don't care much for what you do before."

"Thanks."

"Dean," the man spoke before either of the brothers managed to take a single step and then seemed to not quite know what he'd wanted to say.  
Dean shook his head and pulled Sam by the sleeve to follow him.


	53. Two And A Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! I... guess.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Rain tapped the window in the room that looked exactly like it had been used mainly for sex and sleep, in that order. Dean decided that wasn't the place he wanted to take Sam to, so after picking up the first aid kit from his bag that sat open on the floor, he closed the door behind him and led the younger on until they hit the stairs up and there he sat down on the second step, patting the spot next to him. Sam settled there hesitantly. Neither of them could seemingly decide whether the cover offered by the corner of the wall was more reassuring than it was blocking the view to potential incoming enemies. Dean leaned back until the upper stair pressed into his flesh and he laid his elbows down for support, trying to at least appear calm and relaxed, even if he truly wasn't.  
  
Not that Sam was looking. The man's eyes stayed about the corner of the wall and aimed towards the lower end of it; maybe even the floor at the base. The indoors air smelled dusty when Dean breathed it in, a strange mixture with the fresh rain-washed tone that lingered as the main flavour of the scent. He looked up and traced the ceiling with his gaze.  
  
Moments passed them by sluggishly, blurring and blending with one another until they became a lengthy span of time that Dean couldn't define.  
"I thought we were going to lock me up," Sam muttered finally.

The older looked at him, mainly surprised that someone had said something, and it took him a moment to decipher the meaning of the words. Then he shrugged and started entertaining himself with the ceiling's shapes again.  
"Yeah, we are," he replied, appearing careless, "Just not yet. I'm kind of expecting you to tell me what the hell happened - not to mention I also need to check the wounds on you and, you know, patch you up before sealing you back in the box."

"Nothing happened."

"Yeah, sure. But really, Sam, what did you _think_ was happening?"

Sam sighed and fell silent again.  
The silence stretched on until he grimaced a little, shifting and placing a hand over the largest of the cuts Dean had seen on his abdomen. The motion softened Dean up and sighing, he reached for the bag of necessities he'd brought from the bedroom.  
The younger was clearly uncomfortable with any kind of physical contact and kept shifting and jumping at touch, but there wasn't really anything Dean could do about it, so he tried his best to ignore all of this and do his job instead. There were a few shards of glass still etched inside the taller's flesh; oddly enough, Sam seemed to prefer him pulling them out with the pinchers to him cleaning the wounds or even just applying pressure over the wound after removing the glass to stop the bleeding, despite the removal itself obviously being the most painful thing for him.

When Dean pulled out the last shard and dropped it on the discarded bit of bandage with the others, Sam let out a small sound and turned his face away - first reaction from him that even resembled social interaction since the sigh he'd let out a good long while ago by that point.

"It's Lucifer," he muttered quietly, "He - set the shower on fire."  
A rough laugh escaped him and he lowered his head, closed his eyes and tensed up. Dean caught himself staring and quickly returned to what he'd been doing before.

"Okay? And you didn't think of maybe using the door?"  
  
"There wasn't any door, Dean."

"Oh."  
He picked up the needle to stitch up the deepest wounds, first desinfecting the tool with the flame of his lighter. The fluid was running low, but it wasn't all too hard to come by. Bobby surely had some stored away as well.  
"Well yeah, that complicates things a little. So what happened next?"

Sam shrugged.  
"I don't remember."  
He was lying and didn't even attempt to cover it up. He grimaced as Dean finished with one wound, cut off the string and started up with the next, falling expressionless soon after again as if the pain got easier with each new puncture wound for entry and exit. From experience, Dean knew that wasn't the case. Quite the contrary, it just got worse and worse.

"Lucifer again?" he tried.

Sam shrugged again.  
"As I said, I don't remember."

*

Chuck laid down the book in his hands and stayed to stare at the candle's wavering light casting shadows across the table, shadows that seemed to dance as he watched; his ears picked the sounds of thunder and rain from outside, and he could feel the roads turning into treacherous muddy swamps as he breathed. The hunters were still out, none of them had returned, but it wasn't unheard of for Adam to keep them overnight, sometimes as long as for three. After all with Dean now gone, they weren't up to anything; food and defense were the highest priority.

Yet Chuck wasn't waiting for the rain, nor was he waiting for Adam's group. He had more important matters at hand than anything going on at the camp for now. He was expecting an old friend, in for a chat and perhaps an imported meal. There was a lot to talk about, both in the future and the past, not to mention the pressure of the very present. They were both aware and alert.  
A lone bird crossed the nightfall, screaming as it went. Chuck felt raindrops washing down its sleek feathers and just how they separated the single embodiments of water to multiple ones, sending them flying horizontally and then down. He felt them merging with other drops of water, some with those from which they had just been separated. They crossed space between their momentary positions and the ground at a growing velocity. The soil was not thirsty; when the water landed, it stayed above ground.  
The sound of a million puddles forming was music to his ears.

"Good evening," a soft voice called out, "I apologise, as I'm afraid I have been delayed."

Chuck smiled. He opened his eyes and motioned carelessly toward the chair across the table in direct opposition to him.  
"Not at all, old friend. Not at all. Take a seat."  
The tall, slim male sat down, wet from rain but seemingly inaffected by that entirely. Death raised his eyes to Chuck when they were both sitting still in the silence. The sound of rain toned down like someone was controlling the volume and the wind ceased rattling the rusted metal on the roof of the cabin for just that long like it was afraid of interrupting the meeting in progress.

"How are the times treating you, Thanatos, if I may ask?" the younger asked, crossing his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair.

A faint smile crossed Death's features and he let out a polite sigh.  
"Not all too well, as you surely are aware, El. I would certainly be more frustrated with my circumstances unless I trusted you to have it resolved as soon as, may I use an unnecessary and crude pun, my friend?"

"Go ahead, I am all ears."

" _Inhumanely_ possible."

Chuck let out a low chuckle and an "aah", raising his eyes up towards the ceiling. The rain was growing louder again.  
"The company of my disobedient creation seems as displeasing to you as ever, I take it."

"It does not merely _seem_ , my friend, it is _most_ displeasing. I am not a nanny, as you may be aware."

Nodding, Chuck straightened up again and took a good look at his elder. Then he tilted his head in surrender.  
"Would you say a resolution is due?" he asked dejectedly.

Death raised a brow.  
"Most immediately, old friend."

They watched one another, both smiling but in different manners; for Death, it was the strained smile of someone who did not feel at all patient anymore, and for Chuck, it was the sentimental smile of someone who had to let go of something sweet and enjoyable.  
  
"Oh, but you have always been very fond of your schemes and purposes, haven't you," Death remarked in an entirely disimpressed tone of voice.

"I have," Chuck sighed, "I have. But you are right, certainly, it is time for this to _go_."

The tone of Death's smile changed.  
"I am glad we have reached an agreement. How long would you say?"

A strike of lightning illuminated the scene. Neither of the beings occupying the cabin bothered to blink an eye at the blinding light.  
"Three weeks at most. We must give them time. They are fragile, as you know."

"Two, and no more," Death countered, a hint of frustration in his voice.

Chuck raised his eyes to him and calculated his seriousness, willpower, and dedication.  
Then he smiled.  
"Two and a day."

"Two and a day it is, then."  
Death licked his lips and relaxed, leaning back in his chair - Chuck had laid his elbows down on the table's surface and watched him keenly.  
"Shall we dine? I am starving for some fish and chips," the older proposed pleasantly.

*

Sam descended the ramp shivering and feeling like utter crap. His mind was in a state of panic, but he held it back as well as he could, concentrating on anything but what had happened in the forest and what was waiting for him mere feet from where he was now and even worse, just seconds from this moment.  
He shivered, bringing a hand over to one of his freshly stitched cuts and pressing at it to cause an ache that'd take his mind back to the very present again. Step by step he followed Dean in, deaf to the words the older spoke.

Then he was standing there, right in front of everyone, and despite the smiles on their faces and the inviting words they spoke, he knew it was an act put up for him and he couldn't shake the truth to join that play; the crazy had arrived amongst them.  
He smiled and shook Ellen's hand and apologised to Jo and avoided Bobby's gaze. Dean grabbed his shoulder and they shared a look;

 _You staying?_   Dean was asking him.

 _Hell no_ , he replied with his eyes.

"Sit down, boy," Bobby grunted and pulled him down in the seat next to him.  
Sam couldn't complain - he was down before he could react. He heard the hiss Dean let out but the situation had frozen him on spot and he couldn't really decide what to feel about it. The false ache inside his body was gone, replaced by the real pain in his wounds that he'd barely acknowledged before.  
  
"Bobby, I -" he started, but the man was already looking elsewhere.

Dean pulled a chair from behind them somewhere and landed it grandiosely next to Sam, so close that the younger could feel his body heat radiating against his skin. He was more than just thankful for the cover.  
It was stupid and naive to still believe that Dean would protect him from anything and even himself, but no matter how much he'd tried to tell himself otherwise, he couldn't change the instinctive sense of safety that flushed over him every time the older took that protective stance. He'd learned it so well that whenever Dean was there, he was safe from everything. Right now, amongst the feelings of gratitude and relief, it made him feel like an idiot child.

"Eat some," Dean grunted, handing him a plate over his own.

Sam placed it in front of him and pressed at one of his wounds again when the wave of nausea threatened to take over. He let out a pained chuckle at a joke that was thrown at the precise moment, almost appearing as if he was in on the conversation.

He filled his plate with two small potatoes and brown sauce, a fistful of steamed vegetables and a big dose of determination. Castiel watched him; the rest of them did their best to ignore him, unless he was taking part in the conversation. That was next to never, so eventually when he had finished his dinner slow and steady without the slightest hint of appetite ever making an appearance, he had done so in relative peace and quiet in the middle of a situation that was anything but.  
  
Ellen and Jo had been afoot for a long while; they never stayed in one place for too long, never set up a base camp like Dean had done. They'd learned their lesson, Ellen said, from what happened to the Roadhouse. There was no way they could protect a base by the two of them and trusting others had proven a bad decision - Ellen had avoided to mention what was the lesson, but eventually Jo pushed through and said a group they'd been with had attempted to rape her, and hearing that made Dean drop a glass so that it shattered loudly against the floor, conveniently drawing everyone's attention away from the manner Sam had jumped and fallen uncharacteristically pale at the notion.  
What he learned during the dinner was that Castiel seemed really good at bonding with younger women. Ellen was wary of him but Jo was the exact opposite and all over him, and they even seemed to share a similar kind of humour; a crude, piercing and daring kind of sarcasm that shocked Ellen and made Dean and the Sheriff laugh too much for their own good.  
Sam had a frozen sort of a smile on him but truth was, he ended up enjoying the event more than he'd expected. It anchored him in the present and convinced him for the time being that he was _there_ , that _this_ was real, and in contrast to that feeling, what he'd been through in the forest seemed less acutely painful and almost obviously unreal.

"So, where are you guys headed for next?" Ellen asked them after everyone had fallen silent for what appeared to be the final silence for the previous conversation.

Dean shrugged.  
"We're on a suicide mission, as usual," he scoffed and stretched his neck, managing two loud pops from it that made Jo grimace, "Afraid I can't say much more 'bout it."

Ellen rolled her eyes.  
"'f course you can, idiot. Better share with friends who've been all over, don't you think?" she pointed out.

Dean exchanged brief looks with Castiel, who was in the process of making a small braid on the side of Jo's head from her bright blonde hair. Castiel raised his brows and shrugged, looked at Ellen while Jo stared at him demandingly, then finally shrugged again and returned to his project. After considering for a moment, the older brother leaned towards the table, crossed his hands upon it next to his finished plate and cleared his throat.  
"We're going after Pestilence."

Ellen's jaw dropped.  
"You're what now?"

"Yeah," Dean chuckled, "Told you it's a suicide mission."

"It's always a suicide mission for us," Castiel reminded absently.

Jo was staring at Dean with an intense look on her face, one that wasn't undone by the fact her head was nearly leaning against her shoulder to allow Castiel to continue with her hair.  
Ellen exhanged looks with her - the best she could, anyway, considering she was sitting at the end of the table and Jo at the middle of it, barely able to turn her head towards her mother at all.

"Okay, and I can't talk you boys out of it, can I?" the older woman asked Dean, then moved her eyes to Sam, who shrugged.

"We're just here to gather intelligence, and, well -" Dean started, turning to Sam as well.

"It's obvious, isn't it," Sam sighed frustratedly and retreated in his seat so that Dean's shadow covered him from the light set by the table.

"Intelligence? What's that gonna help with?"  
Dean looked at Bobby, who raised a brow at him implying this was his conversation to have. Sheriff Mills on his other side was still eating, but her eyes and ears were tuned in to their conversation.

"Well," Dean started, clearly uncomfortable with his position as the main speaker, "remember War? Yeah, we handled that. So we figured - since it's all going to hell anyway - why not? We can't gank Lucifer. I've tried, you've heard of it probably, and we just - there's no way. But there are other players in the field. If we can't fix it, we can at least make it better."

"So you head right in to die?" Ellen asked, but her voice sounded impressed, "Damn it, boy, you've really gone in deep."

Dean grimaced but remained silent. Instead, Castiel - freshly finished with his braiding mission - leaned in and cleared his throat to gain everyone's attentions.  
"We can do it," he stated confidently, calmly, "We've tracked his movements across the country and we're leaving as soon as we're good to go."

"Tomorrow," Sam put in.  
He didn't know where the word came from, but he was certain about it. Everyone turned towards him and he expected complaints; instead, Dean nodded.

"Tomorrow, yeah," the older confirmed, his eyes still upon his brother.  
Sam flashed a hint of a smile, still uncomfortably inconfident about whether that word had been spoken by him or some strange force outside his control. It didn't feel like his own idea - it made no sense. Dean agreeing with it made no sense either, but there it was. And it definitely wasn't his crazy talking. It felt right.

"What's the general direction?"

"Kansas," Dean and Castiel replied in a chorus.

"Kansas, huh," Ellen repeated thoughtfully and turned towards Jo.  
Jo looked at her and her face brightened up.  
"We're joining the league for a few miles, if you're all okay with it, and if you ain't, we're still joining. We're on our way to Candice's base for supplies, it's halfway to that direction, you could also benefit from stopping there. Good prices, great company, you know, just in the likely case you're dying the day after," Ellen continued, grimacing.

Dean looked at Castiel and they had a lengthy, silent debate over it. Then, finally, the younger turned to Ellen and nodded.  
"Sounds good to me," he agreed.

*

Rain washed the porch clean of all the dirt that had been gathering on it in the dry weather. Bobby leaned back in his wheelchair and let out a grunt; his fingers trailed anxiously over the worn rubber of the wheels and he couldn't relax, not that that was unusual anymore. He wished he could have just dumped the whole thing - it wasn't the first time he quietly wished it had been him that was shot and not that damn shapeshifter. But he had duties to live for - information to share - it wasn't his time. No matter how much he despised the cards life had dealt him, he wasn't going to give up. It wasn't in his nature to just give up.  
As if knowing what he was thinking, Jody placed her hand on his shoulder and held it tight. He lifted his hand to meet hers for a brief moment before letting go again. Odd mist-like ghosts of the drops falling everywhere were landing on the backs of his hands even this far from where the roof's cover ended.  
  
"Was a long while waiting for this storm," he muttered.

"No kidding," Jody sighed, and Bobby could hear the grimace on her, "Maybe the potatoes aren't a lost cause after all."

"Nah, they're doing just fine. We've been pouring, what, half our well on them the past month?"

Jody smiled. She lowered her head and let out a soft chuckle.  
"Something like that," she said, and a thunder's strike illuminated the yard like a broken heavenly strobe had just given its last shot at them.  
Almost immediately after the light had faded, the sky exploded with a deafening sound.   
  
The front door creaked and Ellen came out, huffing.  
"Quite the weather," she commented, "Gotta say that I'm glad to be here now."

Bobby scoffed.  
"The roads are gonna be crap tomorrow," he thought out loud.

Ellen laughed. She leaned her back to the wall behind her and pushed the front door closed.  
"The roads are crap anyway," she noted, "And they ain't getting any better."

"Well, they're gonna be worse than usual tomorrow is all I'm tryin' to say."  
Silence followed Bobby's words. For a passing moment he'd thought of crossing his legs to get a better pose, and he'd gone as far as to start the movement, almost felt like it was happening, before he remembered there was no damn way in hell he was going to achieve that.  
Another disgruntled sound escaped him.

Jody shifted and then departed from his side, walking a few steps on to take a glance around the corner. Her head, poking out of the shelter provided by the house, was battered with rain that ran down the soft streaks and along her neck before she returned under the roof again. She turned and leaned her back to the post by the steps to the lawn, crossed her arms over her chest and let out a deep sigh.  
"The pit by the gate's collapsing again, Bobby," she reported.

Bobby grimaced.  
"Damn it."

"Maybe we should just pour cement over it. Would buy us time," Jody offered.

Bobby shook his head.  
"No. Can't make it look like someone lives here, we're still not cleared for that."

"But," the Sheriff interjected, her tone mildly frustrated, "there hasn't been a single damn patrol since last November. I think it's time to get this place back in shape, Bobby, no offense but it's coming down pretty fast these days."

There wasn't much the man could say to that. As far as he was concerned, the basement was inhabitable and the rest he never saw anyway. But perhaps that was the core issue; he felt like his life was in ruins, so everything else should fall into ruin as well as it just didn't matter to him. He wasn't benefitting from the fixed roof tilings in the attic as he never even saw the attic anymore.  
  
"Yeah," he eventually sighed, "Yeah, you're right. Rufus said he'd be here next week, maybe I'll call him and tell him to bring Freeman with him. If they're gonna use my place like it was some bed and breakfast place, then they can damn well help us keep it together, too."

Jody nodded. She turned her eyes towards Ellen, who was still standing quiet next to the door. Ellen's light brown hair was tied back and looked dry and badly nourished, but it wasn't much compared to how her face looked. Aside a new still healing scar by her cheek, thin and visible, spanning right from her left cheekbone down under her jaw, she also had the telltale signs of a woman who hadn't slept well in a while. She'd also lost weight, but that was so commonplace now that if you didn't, it got suspicious really fast. Usually staying well-nutritioned meant a person was trading information - or worse - in return for supplies, either from the army or a third party that was just as bad news as the first.

"Ellen. You said you were headed for Candice's?" Jody asked.  
  
Ellen raised her head looking surprised at being addressed; then she nodded, relaxing.  
"We're running out of silver bullets. Wouldn't have thought that's gonna be an issue ever again, but then we bumped into a huge pack of werewolves the other week. They're in hiding but that doesn't mean they ain't fighting for survival just like the rest of us - got this to remind me not to let my guard down on any fronts," she replied, dragging a finger down the scar Jody had noted earlier.

Jody raised her brows, and Bobby turned in attention as well.  
"Werewolves? Where?" Bobby asked.

Ellen rubbed at her neck and yawned, shifting weight from one foot to the other.  
"Illinois, near Aurora. A whole town of them, actually, the things you see in this time and age... A small town, though, just maybe hosted a couple hundred people at its best, we were thinking that they probably were evacuated by the time the werewolves settled in. Don't know about that now since we found at least one man's remains from the house we cleared. Maybe they just, I don't know, got eaten to the last man. We didn't stay to check on the rest."

Jody let out a sound of discomfort. The story had quickly made Bobby wish he could grab a gun and go hunting again, old habits really did die hard.  
"Well that doesn't sound too good. How many did you waste?" he asked instead.

Ellen shrugged.  
"Eight, maybe. Thought we weren't getting out of there alive. Damn army cut the road to Missouri so we were heading for Iowa instead on crap back roads, somehow thought the area was empty and when we saw civilization - actual people - well, you can't really blame us for falling for that."

Bobby chuckled, the laughter lacking even the slightest hint of amusement.  
"Well, wouldn't have crossed my mind either that a whole town would just turn into monsters under the moonlight, I'll give you that."

"We weren't even following the lunar calendar. Stupid thing to drop, really, but we're all the wiser now for that. I'm real proud of Jo, though. She's just like - she's just like her father. A real hunter."

"Eh," Bobby muttered, "in this world, she had better be."


	54. Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, just joking about the happy Christmas thing. Here's something to feel upset about.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Dean kneeled down on the floor next to Sam, who pulled his blanket up against his chest and refused to look anywhere near the older.  
"You sure you're gonna be fine tomorrow?" the shorter asked, trying to keep his voice free of any tone that could be interpreted as judgemental.

"I'm sure, Dean. I don't know how I know but I know, it's over."

"Okay," Dean replied, "Okay."  
What else could he say? They didn't have time to stay to make sure - they hadn't had time to drop by to begin with, there was never any time to lose anymore.

What bothered him more than leaving tomorrow was not knowing what Sam was going through, to still not have a proper idea of what had happened earlier so that he also had no idea how to make sure it wasn't going to happen again. Of course, on the road he'd have to look after Sam even more than he did here, and he'd make damn sure the younger didn't get out of his line of sight, but still, how could he trust that to be enough?  
  
He let out a worn sigh and stood up.  
"Gonna be here early tomorrow, so try to catch some sleep, okay?"

Sam chuckled.  
"Yeah," he replied, finally looking at Dean, "I could say the same to you."

The corner of Dean's mouth twitched.  
"Shut up, Sam," he grimaced and turned to leave.

He bolted the heavy iron door behind him, hoping it would be the very last time he would have to do that, and started to make his way upstairs again. The basement was empty as the rest were outside packing with Ellen, or at least so Dean believed, he hadn't gotten a real response out of them before they'd left, and he'd been too busy packing his things to offer help in any case. However, when he started ascending the stairs, his way was blocked by Jo. She jumped at the sight of him and grasped her shirt, the other hand halfway to the gun on her belt, and the gasp she let out finally made Dean grin.

"I thought you went out with the others," he greeted her.  
  
Jo was still breathless when she chuckled and shook her head.  
"Clearly I didn't," she laughed and threw back her hair, recovering, "Where were you?"

"Downstairs with Sam," he replied simply and quite truthfully.  
He scanned Jo up and down and then shook his head, grinning softly.  
"Man, I didn't think I'd see you again."

"Yeah," Jo nodded, "tell me about it. Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you have a minute to sit down and talk? I mean, I'd really like to - you know, get up to date on everything?"

Dean looked down at the worn stair he was leaning his weight onto, weighing the options. Truth was, he didn't have all that much to pack upstairs and if they'd sit down for a bit, he wouldn't get behind on schedule.

"Okay, sure," he replied soon, aiming his gaze back at Jo and enjoying the smile she flashed at him.  
She'd grown quite a bit somehow since the last time they'd seen - matured, but that wasn't all; she'd gained the look of one of them, a soldier rather than a civilian. She had hardened, grown rough around the edges.

Dean made a full turn and led them back downstairs, brain full of nostalgic buzzing as he recovered the memories from before. The couch in the living room smelled vaguely moldy but he settled on it anyway, and Jo didn't hesitate joining him there.  
"So," he began, leaning his elbows over onto his knees and looking at Jo with a faint smile on his face, "You've been hunting?"

"Yeah," Jo laughed dryly, "Yeah, I've been hunting. We left civilization after you'd disappeared in the woods and have been on the road ever since. I've lost count on the kills. It's not like it used to be out there."

"No kidding. Mainly croats?"  
  
"Yup," Jo confirmed, leaning back on the couch, "but just people, too. The definition of 'monster' has changed a bit since the better days I guess."

Dean nodded.  
"We're all monsters these days," he said, aiming his gaze across the room to the broken television.

"That's what mom says, too."

Rain streamed down the window, reflecting the faint light of the slow-burning candle left standing in a lantern to give light to the room. Jody put them on every night when there was commotion in the house, and blew them off before going to bed around midnight. The flame danced awkwardly, signaling that the heart was drowning in wax. Considering the overall length remaining, the candle wasn't burning out just yet.  
Dean reached for the lantern and brought it closer, briefly enjoying the heat that the glass radiated against his hand.

"So what about you?" Jo asked carefully after a moment.

Dean shrugged.  
"Been a long year for me," he started, not sure how much he wanted to share.  
"Set up camp at the old cabins in Camp Chitaqua, good starting point and easy to improve, far off too so we didn't attract too much attention."

"I heard you were chasing Lucifer."

A grimace spread on the olders face and he shrugged.  
"Didn't go over too well. A lot of good people died - hell, I nearly died, too - and after the last time, we lost the only weapon I've been able to think of. I don't think we're gonna get that son of a bitch, ever. Wasted a lot of time chasing him... after Sam got back, though, I don't know, maybe we have more of a chance than before. If not at winning the war, then at least winning a few battles before going down for good."

"We're all going to die, one way or another," Jo muttered bitterly, then lit up again.  
"How _did_ Sam get away, anyway? We all know the story of how he got in, but..."

Dean rubbed at his neck and looked at the younger, who looked back with a face of excitement over her worn features.  
"Honestly? Not a clue. No one has. At first I thought - you know, it has to be a trap, but... I guess not. I mean, if it was, it would have expired already, right? So we're just kind of... going with what we have now."

Jo watched him for a moment before nodding. She pulled a foot up on the couch and Dean realised she wasn't wearing socks any more than she was wearing boots, and that the soles of her feet were brown with dust and dirt.  
He poked at her and nodded towards her foot, grinning.  
"Any explanation for that?"

Jo laughed.  
"Castiel," she replied cheerfully, reaching to rub at her toes, "we somehow ended up talking about yoga and I told him I don't believe it'd help me relax, you know, what with the whole apocalypse thing... and he insisted."  
She shrugged, challenging Dean's raised brows and unimpressed looks.

"Well, did it? Relax you, I mean," he asked her.

"Yeah," she admitted, letting go of her foot, "It was pretty amazing, actually. I was there for maybe forty minutes after shower and I feel really... I don't know how to describe it. It's like half my worries just vanished, I think I'm going to keep going at it."  
Her laughter was bright and bubbling the while it lasted, and Dean couldn't help but feel like the lightness of it caught onto him as well.  
"I never used to believe in that stuff. It seemed, I don't know, stupid."

"Yeah, it is stupid," Dean snorted, but he didn't sound all too convincing even to his own ears.  
"Anyway, watch yourself around him, he's gotten really good at making women relax around him. It's some kind of a hobby for him to lead people into the light of -"

"Sexual balance and the rejuvenating energies of oneness?" Jo intervened with a snort that was even louder than Dean's.

"Something like that," Dean confirmed uncomfortably.

"Yeah, he told me about that, too," the younger laughed.  
Her foot slipped off the couch and made a small slapping sound as it landed back on the floor. She pulled it up again, then the other and hugged her knees, grinning.  
"That stuff, I'm not going to try out anytime soon. Not with him anyway."

For the first time during the time they'd know one another, the look she gave Dean did not make him feel uncomfortable.

*

He crawled into bed around three in the morning, shivering with cold despite having already ditched his wet clothes and left them drying on the rack. As he lay down on the hard bed as carefully as he could, sighed deep and closed his eyes he already knew that Castiel wasn't asleep. The older stayed on his side facing away from Dean, but his breathing wasn't restful and his pose felt strained.  
Dean tried his best to ignore him, to just get his four hours before they'd need to get up and start driving, but the thought of leaving combined with Castiel's tenseness caused such an anxiety in him that twenty minutes later, he was more awake than he'd been when he'd walked up the stairs.  
He barely dared to breathe as the tension between them grew thicker, nearly like if he'd inhaled deep enough it would choke him, and if he'd exhale too heavily, it'd collapse on him and bury him alive.

"Cas?" he finally mumbled into the dark, swallowing a mouthful of tension and indeed choking on it, if only momentarily.

The angel shifted, stayed still for a moment like he was calculating what it would be worth to turn around, and then, slowly, rolled on his back. He turned his head towards Dean and they looked at one another for a while, the only sound in the room the restless whispering of the wind and the occasional soft, haunting taps of the lone raindrops against the window carrying the goodbyes of the storm that had finally passed them by.  
Then, unexpectedly, Castiel's lips bent to a small, tired smile, and the tension fell apart like it had never been.  
"You picked a strange night to be out late, Dean," he spoke.

Dean grimaced.  
"You have no idea," he mumbled, moving closer.  
Castiel turned over to face him and brought an arm around him, and the comfort his closeness brought Dean was overwhelming. He buried his face into the fallen angel's chest and breathed in deep, finally relaxing.  
"I though you were pissed off," he chuckled breathlessly against the other's skin.

Castiel's fingers moved in his hair calmly and gently, and he stayed silent for a moment.  
"Why would I be pissed off?" he asked after a while of considering it, confused.  
  
Dean didn't know what to answer. Instead, he curled up even closer, pressing his knees against the older's groin and tugging his feet between his legs. Castiel let out a small sound and held him tighter, his chin slipping over to the top of Dean's head and staying there, surrounded by a bunch of wet hair sticking into every direction from underneath.

"I'm sorry, Cas."  
The younger's voice wavered just the slightest bit. Shyly, he brought his own arm around Castiel and pressed his palm between the shorter's shoulderblades, rooting himself there. Breathing was easy, even if his chest felt constricted by all the emotions he tried to sort through.  
Castiel kept petting his hair, his rythm never changing.

"Sorry for what?"  
Second question to address Dean's incoherent sentences - confessions, halfway done - that he just didn't know how to speak out.

"I'm too tired," the younger muttered, shivering as the tension in his body kept fading, and it was true; with every relaxing muscle, he was further filled by the hour-appropriate tiredness.  
"I just - Cas, I'm a shit guy to stay with. I don't deserve you. You deserve someone who appreciates you, someone -"

"Shut up, Dean. Don't do the romance novel talk with me. I don't care what I deserve. Nobody here gets what they deserve."  
The older's hand gripped Dean's hair and pressed his head down until the back of his neck was visible and then he bent his own body into an awkward angle to kiss that sensitive area.  
When he retreated, the skin he'd touched was still tingling.

"I mean it, Cas, I'm trying to-"

"I don't care. Just shut the fuck up and sleep, Dean. I don't care what you did. I don't want to know. I don't want to hear you apologise for it, because what I don't know can't hurt me, and what you don't apologise for, I don't have to forgive."  
His tone was still calm and warm despite the words he spoke, but from them Dean knew exactly just how well Castiel had read him, and perhaps how he'd read Jo, too; whatever he'd said about the angel's ability to read humans, he'd once more been proven wrong about it all.

For the longest while he just stayed there, torn, half-asleep, too conflicted to say a word and just listening to Castiel breathe there next to him, wondering how stupid he had to be to be so certain of this, of _them_ , but only when he was near the older. Then he shifted, pulled himself up and away from the angel's embrace, and settled with his arms drawn around his knees to stare at the wall barely visible in front of him.  
Castiel didn't follow him up, he merely turned on his back again and brought his arms underneath his head, both ears uncovered and tuned to pick up any sound Dean would make.  
Hesitantly, the younger turned just the slightest bit so that he could see Castiel there, and he inhaled and exhaled strainedly before speaking.

"I don't want you to think I did something I didn't," he stated then, "and I didn't sleep with her."

"Yes, well, that would have been a waste in that weather. The garage is hardly romantic and sex in the forest isn't what it's made -"

"Cas."

"Yes?"

"I don't know how to be with myself."

The older slowly got up, brushed back his dark hair that was growing long enough to distract him, and he laid his hand on Dean's shoulder almost like he was asking something with the gesture.  
"Dean," he called out the taller's name with all the affection he'd ever felt towards it, "It's okay."

Dean shook his head.  
"No. It really isn't."  
He closed his eyes at the sight of the older's swift movement, but instead of any pain that he'd instinctively expected, he felt the male's forehead pressing softly against his and the tips of their noses colliding.  
Castiel's voice was like some kind of a lifeline that Dean now held onto, feeling so lost that he couldn't even imagine a way out of the dark.  
  
"No, it isn't. But I'm tired and you're tired and, Dean - honestly, I just want to have you here. It's the last night we'll have _this_ , and neither of us knows what will happen after tomorrow. I just want to feel you and pretend I'm your whole world. Can you give me that, just for tonight?"

Dean swallowed. His exhale wavered and he didn't know how to breathe in again, so he shivered instead. Then he brought his arms around the older and held him close, hand over the back of his neck and the other on the small his back, face hidden in his soft hair.  
"Yeah," he muttered, "I can give you that."


	55. Phone Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam may be a teenage girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year! Last year when I started this fic - this is an anniversary week, by the way - I would have never guessed that a year later, the stupid oneshot would still be going. And what did I do this year, instead of finishing it? I started a new fic that's steadily headed for the same direction. 33 000 words and counting. Imagine what I could achieve if those words had been divided between the four projects I already had underway.
> 
> Oh well! This years promise: finish this fic. It's taught me a lot, but by the gods if it isn't the time for it to go.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The warmth and comfort of the small nest together with the energetic chatter of early morning birds was by far the most pleasant atmosphere for Dean to wake up to. He found himself from the position of the little spoon with no recollection of ever turning around to achieve it - they'd fallen asleep face to face, forehead against forehead, breathing recycled air and feeling slightly sweaty underneath the flap of the sleeping bag.  
Now the flap had fallen to just above Dean's naked waist, and Castiel's arm was around him. He could feel the male breathing against the back of his neck, steady and slow still deep asleep, one article of clothing away from the state of nudity that Dean had adopted before ever heading up to the bedroom a few hours before.  
The wind had quieted down, too; now it was but an occasional soft blast against the trees humming further away, almost drowning into the sounds of the wakeful animals greeting the freshly reborn daylight.

The day was white and the light granted by the uncovered window pale and cold, the whole feel of it just another promise of rain but for now, it didn't look imminent. From downstairs Dean could hear footsteps and Ellen's commanding voice, Jo's voice calling in to respond, and lighter footsteps that sounded like those of Sheriff Mills'. After a brief silence on all fronts save for the clatter of what sounded like plates being placed on a table, Dean heard his brother speaking and then Bobby replying. He closed his eyes and smiled at the noise and commotion. It sounded like home to him.

Behind him, Castiel moved, slowly waking up to those same sounds: his grip around Dean's waist grew stronger for a moment before he rose into a half-sitting position, still not entirely awake.  
  
Dean turned to look at him and took note of his puffy-looking eyes as well as the manner in which his hair pointed at every godgiven direction imaginable and he smiled, reaching a hand over to stroke the rough stubble on the male's jawline.  
"Hey, Cas."

The fallen angel turned to look at him and smiled a little, rubbed at his head in mild bafflement, closed his eyes tightly and let out a heavy, displeased huff.  
"I'm not awake," he mumbled, falling back to the spot he'd just left underneath him.

Dean chuckled.  
"Yeah. I can see that."

Castiel's leg moved over his, trapping him in the pose they were in.  
"How long did we sleep?" the older asked barely audibly.

Dean shrugged, his shoulder colliding with Castiel's nose. The angel seemed indifferent to the fact.  
"Three, maybe four hours at most."

Now the angel sighed, but the sigh was just as heavy as the huff before, only the displeasement of it had been traded in for defeat and submission to the inevitable.  
"If I force myself to remain positive, which I've promised I would do in all occasions, at least three to four is more than the twenty minutes I've counted for the past two nights."

Dean chuckled.  
"You can sleep in the car," he pointed out, turning around and taking the other's head between his hands.

Castiel looked at him, blue eyes weary and rather apatethic. Dean brought their lips together and enjoyed the taste of the older's lips.  
"You're a freak of nature, Cas," he grunted pleasedly with a smile on him as he pulled back from the kiss, "Nobody tastes good in the morning."

"I drink a lot of water," the angel replied with half a shrug, given that a full one wasn't possible with one of his shoulders pressed against the mattress with all his weight upon the side.  
"You, on the other hand," he continued briefly, "could benefit from drinking more."

"I think we already established this once," Dean growled and bit him on the chin, the longer-than-usual stubble making a strange crunchy sound as it bent against his teeth.  
Castiel's fingers wound around his hair and tugged until his head was bending backwards, and Dean let out a muffled moan at the feel of his teeth and lips against his morning-sensitive neck.

"We don't have time -" the younger began, but Castiel's palm shut him up efficiently by pressing against his mouth before he could finish the sentence.  
The older did a throughout job kissing, licking and nipping at his neck from the Adam's apple all the way up to his earlobe, and when he'd sucked on that for just enough to make Dean moan non-stop against his palm, he backed up with a grin on his face.

"Nobody promised you anything," he purred and with that as the final word, he got up on his feet and started dressing.

Dean gasped for air, halfway up from the bed and staring bewilderedly after the other; little by little he realised Castiel was dead serious, and the realisation came with a disappointed sound.  
  
"What?" the standing male laughed, still with the same grin on his face but his eyes now scanning the other's well-responding body rather than his face; "Did you get your hopes up already? You said it yourself: we don't have time. Get up and start dressing, I'm going to go wash the mess we've made of the bags."

"Cas?" Dean muttered, climbing out of the sleeping bag, "You're a dick."

The older's grin toned down to a smile. He pulled on a much too large light grey shirt – the exact tone of the sky above - and reached to brush Dean's cheek with a half-loving, half-mocking expression on his face.  
"Says the asshole."

Dean rolled his eyes and took the step towards his bag that separated the physical contact between them. Castiel was much too cheerful for a guy who had barely slept for days, and Dean was much too grumpy for a guy who had slept more than enough, at least if the most recent rest was excluded from the calculations since that could hardly count as "enough".  
Before he was done with the simple task of wearing clothes, Castiel had already barged out the door with their bed and vanished down the stairs: Dean could hear his greetings and the chorus of replies from the others as he pulled on his socks and spent a moment of his time to mourn the fact that his toes were sticking out from the ends on both feet.

He opened a window to let the air flow free, took their bags and carried them down to the kitchen with him, having no intentions to return up anymore.  
Sam was the first to notice him: despite his pale appearance and the dark reddish rings around his eyes, he seemed to be faring alright. Dean left the bags by the doorway as it was close to the front door and, once his hands were free and arms relaxing again, he greeted everyone relaxedly. Jo smiled at him particularly fondly and he felt a cold grasp over his heart from it at the same time as his stomach summersaulted in excitement. The feelings caused him to grimace rather than smile back, but the woman had already turned away to fill her cup of coffee from the thermos set on the table. The kitchen had been refurnished during the early hours, and their breakfast was served there.  
"Wow, you guys have been busy. Moving back in or what?" Dean asked as he picked a cup for himself and filled it.

"Yup," Jody replied to him with a cheerful of voice, "I managed to convince Bobby we're gonna be just fine even if we don't let the house rot to hell."

Bobby scoffed and turned his head towards the window, but all in all, he seemed just as pleased with the change as the rest of them appeared to be. Sam was leaning to the scrubbed-down stove and sipped his coffee looking absent again, and behind him, the curtain-covered window cast more light against his back than it would have the day before.

"You even washed the windows?"

Ellen laughed. She'd been kneeling on the floor checking her bags which, Dean assumed, she'd repacked to add something from this stop.  
"They didn't; I did," she corrected, standing up and patting the knees of her pants to shake the dust off, "I woke up around four in the morning - along with Jody - and we decided that hell, why not make the place homely again."

Sam shifted and crossed his leg over the other, cleared his throat and smiled.  
"We were just wondering if someone should go up and wake you two, but luckily that's when Cas came down."

Dean huffed.  
"You were making enough noise to stir a whole town, so good job on that."

The younger shrugged, amused - or at least he appeared to be amused, but Dean still saw the weariness in him, the hollow that he wasn't used to seeing in him.  
"Partially intentional," the taller grinned and laid down his cup.

  
*

It wasn't yet noon when the Impala was packed and ready to go. They were standing in the yard that was growing darker by the moment with the thickening of the clouds, waiting for Sam to come out of the house, for the parting words to be exchanged and for the rain to fall. Dean watched Bobby and wished he could say something to clear up what was still between them, for some kind of a fulfilling apology that could cover the whole array of wrongs he'd committed, but Bobby was chatting with Ellen and didn't even seem to notice him.  
Dean was shaken back to reality by the creaking of his beloved car behind him and when he turned, he saw Jo sitting comfortably on the hood.

"Hey, watch it," he grunted, giving her a stern look.  
She grinned and winked at him, leaning back as if bathing in the sun that was well covered up by the white above them.  
"Go chill on your own car, dammit."

"Nah," she chuckled and patted the black, "I like yours better."

"No, seriously, you get off my baby."  
Dean walked the few steps separating him from the car and offered a hand to Jo, who stared at it for a moment and then, squinting challengingly, turned back towards him.

"I think not," she announced.

Dean raised a brow and tilted his head in a manner that responded to the challenge - within a moment, he'd picked Jo up and planted her back on the ground. She'd barely managed to whine in resistance.  
However, when he'd turned away, considering the situation resolved, he felt a tug at his arm and found it bent against his back in a threatening manner of the sense that his shoulder was just about to relocate itself in a very painful way.

"Nobody gave you a permission," he heard from behind him as he bent backwards to allow some relief for his shouder.  
Ellen snorted - Dean assumed it was Ellen, but he really couldn't see from the position he was in.  
  
"Permission to do what?" he threw back, as lightly as he could when it seemed a very real possibility that he was about to get his ass kicked by a girl.

"To touch me."  
The tone of Jo's voice, while menacing and definitely partially serious, had just enough of the purring sort of playfulness to keep the situation embarrassing more than it was genuinely threatening. The younger tightened her grip of his arm.  
Dean growled and readjusted, finding that he really had no room to move anymore.

"Okay," he moaned breathlessly, "Okay - got it - damn it, Jo, just let go of me."

And he was free. Rubbing at his sore shoulder, he turned to glare at the young woman next to him.  
"But you don't sit on my baby or I'm going to kick your ass."

"Right," Jo chuckled.  
She walked off to their car, hopped in on the shotgun side and, when Dean next looked, had a ragged-looking book in her arms. She seemed completely drawn into it already.

Castiel was watching him with a locked expression on his face, and when Dean looked back at him, his brows knit closer together. Then, before Dean could decide what that meant, he'd already turned away and joined in the conversation Bobby was having with Ellen.  
Nobody paid further attention to Dean who, after a while of standing completely still and feeling useless, settled on the hood of the Impala. There were two people in the whole wide world who were allowed to do that, and the other one of them was still inside the house.

  
*

Sam held the large, heavy phone against his ear and prayed to any god willing to listen that someone, anyone, would pick up, and that Sandra would be there somewhere, close enough to get to the phone.  
He waited for a good long while before ending the call and retrying. In a few moments, the line opened up for him, but nobody responded. He heard someone breathing, regardless.

"Um, it's Sam, calling from Bobby's," he started awkwardly.

"Oh."  
It sounded like Adam.  
"Hello, Sam. Can I help you?"

"I was hoping to get Lotus on phone."

"Ah."  
A brief silence followed, during which Sam's heart felt like it was about to climb up his throat as he listened to the breathing and the creaking of a chair from the other end, then a rattle that was caused by the bad connection.  
"I can try and look for her, if you have the time."

"Yeah," Sam replied immediately, breathless, "We're leaving, so -"

Adam's chuckle cut him off.  
"Okay, boy, I'm gonna get her for you. Just give me a moment. She will call you back."  
The call ended.

Sam took a deep breath and laid the phone down, tensed up and then tried to relax, letting the air out from his lungs in one lengthy blow. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and tried to calm down; the chances for Sandra to have died mysteriously within the past few hours were low, and for her to be completely okay much higher, but he couldn't shake the fear that something had happened to her. That fear came so naturally to him. It had been like that ever since Jessica's death, and the years since had done nothing to make it better for him.

Minutes slipped by silently and without him knowing just how many he'd waited through, but each felt more and more like an hour, and he was torn between the need to go and the need to stay and wait. He could _feel_ the others waiting for him and the anxiety that grew the longer he stayed inside without having anyone to tell that he was still coming, but there was no way for him to go before he'd heard her voice, or at least got a call back that she was out but okay.

Finally, the phone beeped.  
He picked it up with a trembling hand and pressed it against his ear.  
"Hey?" he choked.

"Hey, Sam - God it's so good to hear from you."  
It was Sandra's voice. She sounded happy and completely, entirely alright, as alright as she could possibly be.  
"How are you? Are you okay?"

Sam laughed. He couldn't not laugh, the relief was too strong and it washed over him like an ocean that had previously been held back by a giant wall of diamond-hard concrete.  
"I'm fine," he said and was startled by the tears that fell down from the corner of his eye and then the other.  
He choked, sat down and buried his head in his arms, and no matter how hard he tried to keep that sudden breakdown to himself, he could hear from the way Sandra breathed that she was aware that he was crying.

"You... don't sound fine. Sam."

"It's - it's nothing, I - the detox - I just... I'm so damn glad to hear your voice, Sandra, I -"

"It's okay, Sam. It's okay. I'm good. I'm - Sam, I'm really good, I've been fixing cars and doing some tinkering here now that the two main mechanics are - I mean - you probably don't care, it's just -"

"Yeah," Sam blurted in a mixture of a sob and a chuckle, "Yeah, I do care. Tell me. Please, Sandra, tell me."

She breathed a wavering breath and then chuckled, too.  
"Okay, Sam, you're really weird, you know that?"

The man's gaze was caught up on the dust swirling underneath the faint electric light set on the table and he sniffed, no longer trying to keep it quiet even though the worst was over already. It had lasted no longer than a few seconds, but the sobs had been rather violent and his whole face was wet already. He felt throughoutly stupid, terrible and in love.  
"Yeah," he muttered with a smile on his face, "I'm a freak, I know. But seriously. Tell me."

"Well, after you left, I've just... I mean, Cas is gone so I'm not going to be there anymore - I took his cabin, by the way, it's really nice. We've done a whole lot of regrouping here to cover up for the spots left open, so I'm fixing the cars and the cabins and a lot of the electric stuff since I already know how to, basically. We got a new family over, they're settling in just fine and the mom, Grace, used to have a garden; her husband, Jay, grew up on a farm so they're taking care of what we're growing. The kids are just learning, but the teen actually took down a deer last week, so we're thinking of placing him on the hunting team permanently in future. The second child's too young to take part, but she's really cute and the girls love her. She's a welcome burden."

"So... you're - you're okay?"

"Yeah," Sandra laughed, "Yeah, I'm just missing you. I feel more okay here after your brother left, actually. The air's cleaner."

Sam laughed too. He rubbed his eyes and sighed.  
"Sounds good. Damn, Sandra - I need to -"

"Okay. I love you, Sam. I know it's a bit early to say - we barely know each other - but you're special."

Sam closed his eyes and imagined the woman's soft, dark skin and her smile and her round nose and the long lashes framing her eyes and he smiled, barely able to breathe.  
"You're special, too," he said then quietly.

"So I'm not stupid?" she replied warmly, laughter in her voice even though she wasn't laughing.

"No," Sam confirmed, "No, or then I'm stupid too. Actually, yeah, I think we're both stupid. Worse, we're crazy. But I love you, and I don't care."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

Silence.

"So you should go."

"I should go, yeah."

"Yeah."

"Bye."

"Bye, Sam. I love you."

"I love you too."

"Go."

"Okay."

"Okay. Go."

"I'm going."

"No, you're not going."

Silence.

"Just go, Sam."

"Yeah."

He let the phone slide down in his hand and ended the call.


	56. (Un)Fit For Work

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ 

The sound of the house's door slamming back shut gained everyone's attentions. Sam was wiping his apparently freshly washed face on a worn towel, the front of his long hair wet and clumped. Once he was done, he pushed the towel down his pocket so that the majority of it still hung out like a misplaced tail, picked up his pace and jogged to them.  
"Okay, I'm awake, call done, are we ready?" he blurted out breathlessly when he arrived.

Dean chuckled from his position on the Impala, slammed a palm against the hood and stood up.  
"Yeah, I think we're ready," he replied, glancing at Bobby who replied to him through his expression, implying there was nothing further weighing between them.

"You boys call me when you get near a working phone, alright? I don't wanna lose track of ya," he spoke then, giving a meaningful look towards Sam.

Sam raised brows at him and nodded with an awkward chuckle.  
"Yeah, we'll call you," he promised.

"Alright, guys, pack up then - I'm driving," Dean announced.  
He walked around the car and hopped in on the driver's side. Castiel joined him soon enough, taking the backseat without question.  
Sam was still standing about exchanging words with Bobby, and Jody Mills stood by their side looking serious enough to fit a funeral, but Dean didn't pay attention to them, as Castiel's fingertips had just landed on his shoulder from behind.

"Dean," the older spoke.  
Dean turned to face him expectingly.  
"Today's not yesterday. I - I kind of want to know what the hell you did with her last night. We're going to be on the road with them for at least a day - maybe two, you know the conditions. I don't want to end up with this between us, Dean."

A hint of a defeated smile appeared and disappeared from the younger's lips, and Castiel's eyes were caught up on them for a bit while Dean prepared his response.

"You put her in a good mood. I don't know - you probably don't know our history, do you?"

"No. I do not."

"Yeah, well, Jo's been like - like a little sister to me. And I haven't seen her since, well, since the whole world went down the gutter. The last time we spoke, you may be aware, was when War went to town and it was a messed up situation all in all. So it's been a few years and she's, man, she's changed. She used to have this - this idol crush on me, I don't know, it wasn't anything serious. I kind of went with it and kind of didn't. Tried to ignore it. But she's grown and, I guess her crush hasn't. So we went in the forest for a bit and -  _crap_. Hey, Sam."

The car's door had opened and Sam had flopped down into the seat. He glanced at Dean with the most suspicious look on his face and Castiel had already fallen back to his previous location, his back against the seat and a look of pure disinterest on his face.

"Ready to leave?" Dean grimaced, his heart beating a little too fast for his liking for no apparent reason at all.

"Yeah," Sam confirmed.  
  
Before them, Ellen was starting up the car - her arm rested on the car's open window and her face was turned towards Sheriff Mills, who was laughing; Bobby was watching them with his expression unreadable.  
When the pickup truck had started on before them, Dean brought the Impala on the track behind them. He was both glad and sad to drive past the gates of the Singer Salvage Yard again: on one hand, it meant they were getting somewhere, they had a purpose and they were going for it. On the other, he felt like he was losing an opportunity to have something else, even though reasonably he knew that that particular opportunity had never existed for him. There was no space for them in here for a longer while: they didn't belong. Yet still, somehow, he wished they could have made that space for themselves.

The road underneath them was bumpy and rough from the rain, and as they'd all foreseen, rain was slowly starting to fall again. They were headed for the opposite direction from it however, and Dean hoped they'd be spared, as driving in the rain wasn't a small deal or just a minor inconvenience under the current circumstances. The Salvage Yard's road was in a reasonably good condition for today's standards, and it was far from pleasant to drive on.  
Sam was pulling out a book he'd either stolen from or been gifted with by Bobby; it was the book with the most information on the Horsemen they'd found, with all of their research taped and clipped between the pages at relevant portions. Dean barely glanced at it - he had his hands full with keeping the car on the track, as the wide Impala kept slipping off the crumbled sides towards the ditches created at each side of the road. Ellen's truck didn't seem to suffer from such problems. It was like an elephant marching steadily onwards, and for some reason it seemed to be barely affected by the bumps at all.

"Damn good job they've done on the car," Dean muttered.  
  
Nobody paid attention to him.  
He looked into the rear mirror and saw Castiel feigning sleep in a very convincing manner - in a minute, however, he saw that the angel opened his eyes again and slid down on his back, landing his feet on his bag that he'd stored at the end of the seat, the soles of his boots almost touching the window on that side.  
Dean grimaced and turned his eyes back to the road again.

"Sammy?"

"Mm-hm."

"Throw me some Metallica."

"Damn it, Dean, no. Not this early in the morning," the younger grunted, but bent to over to look for the casettes either way.

In a minute, he handed Dean one of the mixtapes of Led Zeppelin songs - it looked even more ragged than Dean had remembered, and he would have crossed his fingers for good luck as he pushed it in and pressed play, had he had any fingers to spare for that.  
He felt something akin to electric shocks passing up and down his hand as he laid it back upon the wheel, knowing from experience it was the nerve damage from the burn fixing itself out. It was a mildly unpleasant sensation the sound of the guitar riff starting from the worn speakers of the car luckily pushed out of his mind.

"Oh yeah," he grinned, nearly losing control of the car when one of the wheels slipped off the road again as the weakened side broke into a miniature landslide.

Sam laughed.

  
*  


They stopped for the first break after five hours of non-stop driving. The cars were parked at the side of the forest road, and as much as Dean would have liked to be able to claim he knew exactly where they were, he'd lost track of the map around two hours ago and hadn't quite gotten back on it since. Sam, the usual map reader, hadn't bothered to open it at all. He'd been completely submerged in the lore and almost written a completely new book based on (Dean assumed) the theories derived from their information and his own calculations alon the way. Castiel had done nothing but slept, or pretended to, and in time the Zeppelin tape had been switched in for another, then recycled again.

Rain had indeed stayed at their rear and now the clouds were finally breaking apart, letting through rays of warm sunlight upon their path. The temperature was chilly but not particularly cold, wind playing a big part in dropping the warmth for them. Between the trees it got that much better, and the car was always warm. They still had a good while until sunset, but the pause they were having would still be a brief one, especially because though they'd made progress, it had all been frustratingly slow and had gotten them nowhere near as far as they had hoped.

"The ladie's room is this way," Ellen said, climbing out of her truck and pointing to the left of the road, "No guys allowed. And no peeking."

Dean raised a brow at her. She was still threatening enough to keep him from making a remark about it, and instead he chose to turn around and knock on the window over Castiel's head - Sam was already headed for the forest to relieve himself. He was being awfully quiet for himself.

"Cas? If you need to take a piss, you'd better get out of there now, because we aren't stopping again until nightfall."

Castiel stirred and squinted at him, raising a hand to cover the white light from the clouds to see him. Dean smirked at him and stepped back, then turned and went in the forest. When he resurfaced three minutes later, he found Jo from kneeling in front of the Impala.

"The hell are you doing?" he asked, voice softer than the words would have implied.

"It's just - who scrubbed this thing?"

"Why do you care?"  
Dean kneeled next to her and peered underneath the car. He saw nothing unusual.  
Jo stared at him like he was out of his mind, and the conflict between these two things made him very uncomfortable.

"It's been neglected to hell and then resurrected from ashes, anyone can see that."

"And?"

"And?" Jo repeated and stared at him, then stood up and huffed, shaking her head, "Nothing. It's just strange, you know, how you love this thing beyond everything else and still let it rust like that."

"I don't know, she looks okay to me, everything considered?"

Jo raised her brows, opened her mouth and then closed it again, shook her head once more and started walking away.  
"Whoever the hell you are," she chuckled disbelievingly as she went.

Dean raised his brows after her, shrugged and stood up.  
He jumped at the sight of Sam right there next to him.  
"Whoa, sorry?" Sam laughed, leaning back and settling on the hood.

Dean rubbed at his temples and grimaced.  
"I think I need some rest, man," he muttered.

"I could drive if you want me to," the younger offered.  
Dean nodded and sat down next to him. Ellen had opened the truck's hood and was leaning over it, and Jo was now standing next to her. Neither looked particularly concerned so Dean didn't even think of joining them. Castiel had vanished, but that didn't bother Dean all too much either; it was unlikely he'd end up in trouble here.

"How're you faring, anyway?" Dean asked after a minute.

Sam shrugged.  
"I'm okay?" he replied, appearingly unsure why Dean would even ask.

"Got somewhere with all that reference and crosschecking?" the older grinned.

"Kind of," Sam said with a hint of a smirk, "At least I haven't found anything wrong with our notes so far. I mean, aside the kill thing that isn't going to pan out, even if it was true."

"Yeah," Dean sighed, dropping on his back on the car.  
It creaked and nodded underneath him, making him feel welcome there.  
"We don't really have the means to acquire 'dust from newborn bones charred in the fires of Vesuvius under full moon' at this stage, correct me if I'm wrong."

Sam sniffed.  
"You don't say," he laughed, "Though - anyway - the ring alone gets us far enough. Damn."

"Yeah?"

"No, it's just that - we're doing this. I'm here and we're doing this. Seems funny."

"Okay, your sense of humour is as weird as ever, so whatever, I'm not asking."

"Shut up, Dean. You know what I mean."

Sun peeked from behind the ripped clouds again and bathed the road in its warmth. Dean closed his eyes and felt like he was swinging, a sensation left behind by the past hours of travel. In a few uncounted moments, footsteps carried to his ears and soon enough the car dipped just that much lower when Castiel settled on the hood with them.

"Cas? Get off of my car."

"He means you can stay," Sam translated, and Dean opened an eye just for long enough to smack him on the arm.

It was a very lazy smack, but in return for it, Sam slapped his hand aside so hard Dean could feel the spot swelling. He grimaced and closed his eye again, resting the hand on top of his chest and trying to look like he was immune to pain.

"I don't, seriously, she's going to get scraped up if one of you doesn't get the hell off and get her nose up from the road."

"Nah," Sam countered.

"Yeah, actually," Dean insisted.

Castiel's hand appeared on his chest and just stayed there like it was nothing out of the usual. Dean's whole body turned tense as a result and he didn't know what to say, so he just stared at the sky with his now wide open eyes.

"Sam's turn to drive?" the angel asked after a while, watching Ellen and Jo just like Sam was doing.

Sam nodded with a sound of agreement. He raised a hand to rub at his nose, then looked at Dean and Castiel's hand on him and then Dean again. His soft smirk as he turned away got Dean up. The older brother leaned over to his knees and resumed watching the women with the rest of them, feeling mildly annoyed and embarrassed by the quiet interaction that had just taken place.  
Then, as they still seemed to be interested in the car more than they were interested in leaving, Dean finally stood up and walked to them.  
  
"Everything okay?" he asked.

Ellen made a dismissive gesture in the air and pulled up, slamming the hood down.  
"Sure hope so," she grimaced.  
"It's been making an awful lot of noise but I can't find a thing wrong with it, so we'll just have to see how it goes. Ready to leave I take it?"

Dean nodded.

"Let's, then."

  
*  


Dark forced them to abandon driving for the day in Nowhere, Nebraska. In the fading light of sunset, already quite desperate to find any man-made shelter that they could trust to keep them safer than a wide open span of abandoned fields and light woods could, they finally drove past an abandoned horse ranch with a large stable smack in the middle of a still usable yard. It was both a pro and a con that it was in the middle of meadows, formerly used for pasture, because in a position such as that - in case the stable had an upper floor that they could still reach - they could easily see any intruders from afar, but it also meant any light they would make would potentially shine like a lighthouse amongst a sea of wild grasses.  
  
Breaking into the stable was easier than anyone had expected; the back door was not locked. They'd hidden the cars behind the building but kept them ready to go in case there was someone or something else hiding here already. All five of them had their guns ready as they stepped in - Castiel and Jo held the only lights they had in the darkness.  
Dean walked in the front with Sam at his back, and Ellen and Jo were together in the middle with Castiel keeping tail. Each of them faced their own directions so that nothing was left up for chance, and slowly they moved through the main building, checking each and every stall individually as well as the spaces between the pairs. The stable had held fifteen horses in its prime, but now the only living creature they found was a black-and-grey striped cat that ran across the hall and nearly got itself shot on the way. There were two rooms on one side of the stables and there was no upstairs, just a very high ceiling above them, which meant that the hay had been stored elsewhere. The whole place smelled vaguely of horses but even more so of damp concrete and dusty wood, meaning that it hadn't been used for a while now.

Rotting hay was still scattered along the floors.

Having secured all corners of the building they covered up the windows next and checked the entrances, improvising barriers to block incoming threats but not their own way out. When they were done, as far as they could tell the time was nearing midnight already. They'd brought supplies indoors and set up camp in what appeared to have been used as a kind of a lounge room for the staff. The other separate room was still full of riding supplies and general equipment and had a set of keys on the table that they supposed would have allowed them inside the building opposite from here, and judging by the lack of feed in this one, it was likely the one with all the hay and whatever else the horses needed to survive.  
They paid no thought to that set of keys.

Although the place seemed abandoned, Ellen left with Castiel before they settled to rest in order to check the house. They never ventured inside, as it was completely empty of furniture - the owners had packed up and left, probably due to evacuation. Just in case there were croats inside, they barred the locked doors. Going inside for a more throughout check would have required them to break through a window, and in the still night the sound of it - in fact, the sound of  _any_  breaking in - would have carried too far to be worth the risk.  
It was very unlikely the place hosted any croats however, considering its location smack in the middle of vast oceans of meadows with no civilization whatsoever to be seen, and as such, Dean settled on his sleeping bag feeling confident they'd get to rest until sunrise without issue. After everyone was satisfied with their temporary lodgings, they cooked a supper from an equal amount of food from what they carried, ate and settled an agreement on guard duty. Sam took the first one, then would be Ellen's turn, then Dean's, then Castiel's and finally Jo's until morning, as Ellen would be driving and Jo could catch the rest of her sleep in car if necessary.

The room was so small that each of their sleeping bags was side to side to that of the next one's - Dean's was between Castiel's and Sam's, Castiel's being the one closest to the wall and Sam's in the middle. After each of them had settled in their bunks, Dean turned to face the angel and, hidden from view due to how they were positioned, they fell asleep holding hands.

  
*

  
Silence fell suddenly in the room. Sam sat on the wooden chair set by the covered-up window, one arm resting on the table and the other resting on his lap with the gun. He tried to tell himself he wouldn't accidentally shoot any of his company, but he'd chosen the first round for a reason; he wasn't yet tired, and after the meal he had a fair chance of staying lucid as long as that remained the case. And when he'd get tired, instead of having to stay up any longer than he felt comfortable with he'd just wake Ellen up and crawl in bed himself. The day had gone well for him with the only sign of the withdrawals being the lack of ability to concentrate fully and the overall feeling of weakness alongside with the distant, muffled whispers that still lingered at the edge of his consciousness, barely attracting attention anymore. They were more of a nuisance like minor tinnitus and not a real issue without the rest of what he'd dealt with in the past.  
In the silence, however, the voices grew louder and more persistent, and he couldn't shake off the memories of yesterday either. He'd slept badly the previous night - slept, however, which was an improvement. Those same memories haunted him more vividly in his dreams than when he was awake and perhaps that contributed to his current state of wakefulness, too. He dreaded sleep so his body shook it from him, clinging to what energy was left to it before it'd inevitably give in to exhaustion and need the rest. He was glad about that. If he was tired enough when he'd crawl into his sleeping bag, he had more chances of sleeping without dreaming, and that was just the thing he needed. 

Outside, crickets had begun their ceaseless, vibrant chatter that carried through the walls and the covers of the window, and the nightly birds chimed in on the chorus every now and then. Sam could hear the call of a great horned owl; the steady, loud hooting carried clearly through the open fields, reminding him of just how secluded the area was. How secluded  _any_  area was. He hadn't yet even seen the still inhabited portions of the country and thought it unlikely that he ever would, not to mention that he knew by now how bad it would be if he in fact would get the chance. It would hardly mean what it had before. No, it seemed like the only way he was going in a place that was full of people would be if they'd be captured by the military and dragged off to wherever, and even that was unlikely; by the sound of it, most people like them travelling in the restricted zones were simply shot to death without bothering with redundant questions first.

He let out a small sigh and adjusted in his seat, finger sliding along the silver of his gun.

He didn't know exactly how big the restricted zone was - his general understanding was that everywhere was restricted, but within that big splotch there were green zones, yellow zones and red zones. Red zones were zones where nobody had any business going; the hot zones, croat zones, danger zones. Those were small, walled-in portions of cities and towns mostly, designed to keep in a population of croats that would eventually starve to death or be shot to death attempting escape, one by one until no one was left.  
The yellow zones were allowed to those with the correct travel forms and IDs and they covered up the unguarded lands, countryside included, which meant that basically the yellow zone spanned through most of the country. Green zones were walled in like the red zones were but covered whole cities and surrounding areas where agriculture was still functioning, and most of the red zones were actually trapped inside the green zones. The minority of red zones were isolated towns, even small cities, elsewhere and they seemed to be mainly left guardless, leaking croats into the rest of the yellow zone as they moved out in search for more victims.  
For the outsiders - people like Dean - there was another type of red zones: the military areas. Those covered larger areas than the actual red zones did and they kept changing form, usually growing as the croats were pushed further by armed forces, but sometimes they also diminished. Sometimes the virus caught onto the military itself, infected soldiers and turned a camp into a hellish chaotic mess, the worst kind of a red zone, and sometimes the presence of the infected simply grew too vast and the army had to back out.  
  
Sam grimaced, rubbing his eyes.  
What a crazy world. 

In a moment's time he realised he'd closed his eyes for a moment too much, as for just a second he saw a flash of the forest ground in front of his eyes. He saw his own elbows digging to the soft terrain, felt the ghosts of fingers holding his hips still and down so tight he could feel the bruises forming underneath.  
In the present he jumped, lips parting in a gasp. He found his own fingers from his side, tips pressing very lightly onto the still aching flesh on that side. Sweat formed a thin film over his forehead and he stood up to shake the memory from his head. His heart raced and his hands trembled, and his toes and fingers were cold as ice. 

 _It wasn't real,_ he thought to himself decisively,  _It wasn't real._

But then why the hell did he have the bruises? How on earth had he managed to hold himself from behind with such a force that it left handprints upon his flesh? Swollen, blood-red bruises that ached when he moved and throbbed when he didn't?

_It wasn't real. No matter how convincing, it wasn't real._

He held his hands over his face for a moment to calm down, just breathing the recycled air and thinking of white noise and nothing in particular. Then his ears picked apart a sound different from the usual buzzing of the auditive hallucinations he could easily tell from reality at this stage. Slowly, he raised his face above the cover of his palms and the gun, the side of which was still pressing cold against his forehead. He lowered it along with his hands and turned to face the door, listening.  
It sounded like rats - it could very well have been rats. 

For a while, he heard nothing. Then the skittering noises started again. To make it worse, now the low-energy lamp that they'd set on the table was blinking.  
He held his breath and prayed that it was not spirit activity and just a freak coincidence - when were they ever? 

Dean shifted in his bed. Sam looked over at him and they shared a brief eye contact. Then the lamp went out.

"No way," Dean mumbled.

"Do we have salt rounds?" Sam asked him. 

Dean chuckled.  
"Guess?" he sighed.

Sam listened to him getting up.  
  
"Guys," the older spoke into the dark, "Seems that we have a minor spirit problem here. Grab your iron, rest has been officially cancelled for tonight. Sam, you close to the window still?" 

"Yeah. Give me a moment."  
The tallest fumbled about for a second before reaching the edge of the cardboard set against the window. He tore off the tape and pulled it away to let the pale nightlight in. The waxing gibbous in the sky brought in enough light to see around in the room - Sam watched the rest get up and ready, which took only a moment. All of them were hunters, all of them slept like dogs on guard. 

"What is it?" Jo asked.  
Her tone was matter-of-factly and serious through and through, and to Sam who'd seen her on a job twice before, it showed clearly how much she'd gained experience since. 

"A spirit of some kind. Sounds like a poltergeist. Skittering, then the lights went out. It's growing cold. We need to get in a room that isn't cramped like this one. Come."  
He turned to the door and opened it. In the main room, the air was freezing cold; his breathing was clouds of white covering up the track before him, barely illuminated by the fading lights of the flashes Jo and Castiel were once again holding. Dean followed him close by, so close that Sam felt his warmth in the unnatural cold that surrounded them. 

There was a shape by the large windows - they briefly saw it, a large black mass that resembled an overweight man, before the flashlights went out just like the lamp had.  
"My shotgun's in the truck," Ellen informed them.

"No time," Dean muttered silently in response. 

The cardboard over the windows where the shape had been fell off with a loud tearing sound, and suddenly they were bathing in greenish-yellow light from above. Sam, unable to resist, glanced up and abandoned guard in front - he saw ghosts of the stable lights hanging high above in the ceiling, feigning live lights in the corpses of the lamps that they'd declared dead earlier that night. Their pale glow did not light up the room. It was just as dark as before, and the light they saw was like mist, it barely painted the dark with a different colour, yet remained just as thick and difficult to navigate.

Their group pulled closer together, ready for a blow, but the cold was gone. If it hadn't been for the lighting, the situation could have been non-threatening.  
And then Sam saw it: another shape, a familiar shape, by the window.  
He raised his gun awkwardly towards it, not being able to decide if he should shoot or just pretend he wasn't seeing it.  
"Dean?" he called out, choosing the one option that made sense. 

No response.  
As confused as he was alarmed, Sam turned his head towards his brother, who looked as if frozen on spot - and so were the rest of them.  
Slowly, Sam turned back towards the shape, knowing exactly where it would next be. He raised his eyes to look into Lucifer's.  
"There was never a poltergeist, was there?" he asked, voice full on toxic. 

Lucifer smiled.  
"No. There was never a poltergeist, Sam. Such a clever boy you are."


	57. Soulmates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay hi. I'm sorry for missing Tuesday, been busy! Regardless, you'll get a double-triple-whatever entry for today since I'll be travelling next week and can't update. (Maybe. Probably.)  
> Hope it makes up for sucking at schedules, too.
> 
> God, it's been a LONG while since I wrote these parts, and I feel like I've gained some ten levels in storytelling since. Sorry for the clumsiness.

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Dean woke up to the flickering light. He blinked a few times, fingers bending tighter between Castiel's, and unwilling to get up, he tried to fall back asleep. Something kept bugging him, however. At first it had felt like a bump underneath him, something he could move off of, and he'd already tried. Then it had turned to a vague resemblance of the feeling he got when there was something supernatural going on, but this wasn't that either. Now it was like an annoying itch all over him that he couldn't shake and finally he sat up, expecting to see Sam sitting by the table.  
But that was just it; Sam wasn't there.

He creased his brows and realised that the feeling was the _lack_ of something in the room: lack of the sounds of shifting, lack of creaking of the chair, lack of Sam's sighs and the knocking of his shoes against the wooden floors. The lamp was still there, its dim yellow light casting shadows across the floor from the chairs and the table itself, and the lamp was burning out. They had a spare one in the Impala, but Dean wasn't going to go and get it, so the light had better last until he'd find Sam.  
  
Slowly, quietly, he got up from the sleeping bag. Sam had probably abandoned the ship to take a piss in the ocean, wherever that was, so he'd be back in a minute - and if not, Dean would go looking for him. He had no idea how long he'd slept, but now he hoped it had not been long.

Deciding it was best to calm down while waiting for Sam to return, Dean stood up and walked to the chair. Sam's gun was gone, too, but Dean couldn't decide if that was good or bad news.  
  
Minutes passed.  
The longer he waited, the more anxious Dean got: he couldn't hear any sounds beyond the crickets outside. It hadn't been long before he decided he'd had enough of waiting, picked himself up again as anxious as ever and walked up to Ellen. He shook her by the shoulder gently to wake her up and took a step back to allow her some space first.  
"Ellen?" he called out.

Ellen sat up looking disoriented and oblivious for a moment, then her eyes caught Dean's features and she frowned.  
"Where's Sam?" she asked.

Dean shrugged.  
"I'm going to go look for him. I need you to stay here and if I'm not back in fifteen, wake up the rest. He's probably just outside - it hasn't been too long. I'm just not comfortable not knowing, you know?"

Ellen rubbed at her face for a moment before getting up. She grabbed her gun, looked at Dean and nodded.  
"Fifteen and the musketeers are after your asses. Don't be late," she grimaced.

Dean gave her a thankful look before turning and facing the door. He laid his hand over the handle and pushed the door open. With the final glance he took of the room he was now leaving behind he saw Ellen settling by the table and holding a thumb up for him.  
As he closed the door and entered the darkness, he wondered whether he really should have taken this up alone.

 

  
*

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?" Sam asked.  
His mind was screaming at the top of the volume of silence that he should take a step back and run, but it would have been useless, he knew it all too well by now.

"It's been a while, Sam."  
Lucifer looked into his eyes and he couldn't turn away. He had no choice but to look back, as if he was still somehow under his control even now.  
"Ah... or has it? Has it been, truly?"

Sam didn't know what he could have commented to this monologue. The only redeeming feature of it was that he did not care to, either.

"No," the angel spoke softly, "It would appear... it has not been a while. Sam."

In the silence, barely even the sounds of crickets carried in anymore. Sam looked around and realised he wasn't in the stables anymore. He was surrounded by a sickly pale green, vast nothing that spanned on forever and felt vaguely familiar in the same manner the lingering feel of a nightmare felt familiar when a fragment of it resurfaced into the conscious mind. It made him shiver with terror, and despite hoping the angel hadn't caught that, he knew it was for nothing.

"Time runs different for me, you know that. It is not always the same as it is for you. Especially in the shape you've left me in. I still don't understand how - how did you leave?"

"Yeah, well, that makes two of us."  
He didn't bother looking for ways out. He was dreaming, there was no doubt of it, and the dream had now been hijacked. That was another thing he had no doubt about: Lucifer was real. In this space and time, he was as real as Sam was, which in itself didn't necessarily help as in a dream the reality of even his own self was a matter of perception, but he had the very uncomfortable feeling that Lucifer in here was equally a true manifestation of Lucifer elsewhere in the waking world just like he was that of himself. The relative safety of this all not being _real_  did not make him feel better about the fact.

"Truly?"  
Lucifer stood right in front of him, somehow the same height as he was despite Sam knowing well his other vessel wasn't as tall; in fact, in here the angel towered just the slightest bit above him, as if their positions had been switched.  
"After all this, you still hang onto the story?"

Sam stared back at him. It had always been hard for him to face Lucifer like this and pretend he was not afraid of him, but now? His determination wavered, crumbled like the road they'd travelled earlier, to nothing but dust around the bare bones of willpower.  
Not only was he afraid, there was something else behind this feeling now, something more akin to having already lost not only once but multiple times and the expectation of yet another beating to come that he wasn't strong enough to take.

"Tell me, Sam. Tell me the story. Tell me _your_ story; what got you loose? I _needed_ you still."

Sam wanted to change the positioning of his feet to get an inch higher still, but any movement would have appeared a sign of discomfort and weakness, so he had no room to do so. He swallowed and turned to look elsewhere, not like he was escaping the eye contact but like he was seeking the answers from elsewhere, and all that time he felt Lucifer's eyes burrowing into the corner of his right eye.  
He glanced back at the older and squinted.

"One moment," he spoke quietly but not submissively, "I was there - the next, I wasn't. I'd expect it somewhat matches your understanding of the situation."

Lucifer sighed and turned from him. He walked a couple steps on while Sam watched him and then turned back towards him again.  
"You are lying, Sam Winchester. I can see it in you. Don't forget we are here... inside your own mind. I see things that you refuse to see - I see what you truly think."

Sam scoffed, disbelieving.  
"Oh yeah? Well, then why don't _you_ tell me what I'm thinking," he shot back.

Lucifer tilted his head just the slightest bit to right and watched him carefully.  
"You," he began after a span of silence had exhausted itself out, "think _God_ set you free. That the God who abandoned us and cared nothing for us came back _for_ you... that you were special enough for Him to rescue you and you alone, personally. Out of all people... you have hope that you are important. You wish it were so, but you're afraid to believe."

Sam blinked and shifted, he couldn't help it. A little shaken still he gathered himself again and wore his poker face on even though they both had seen it falter at the words.

Of course he didn't _believe_ that, but the childish hope did live inside him still. The naive will to believe he wasn't alone in this, that someone had seen, was seeing, was watching over him still.  
He'd asked for it but regardless, having all that laid out for him in a tone of voice that did not sound judgemental, that seemed to merely read out his thoughts aloud, the ones he'd hidden deep... it all came down on him like a bucket of ice cold water. It had broken through his guard and now he was uncertain how to pull it all back up.

"I've seen inside you, Sam. For years we were one, you and me. I gave you so much in return; the other angels give nothing, you see? You signed up for my purpose. The deeds you've declared _evil_ and _against your will_ , those you signed up for. I told you, Sam, I told you what you were up for, and you signed the contract. You said yes to me. You gave me your word, your permission, and I gave you all that I could in return. Which one of us is the deceiver, Sam? You hate me so much and for what, exactly? The question... I see we're at it again. Ask me, Sam. Ask me the question."

Sam shivered.  
"Does the crime fit the punishment?"  
He didn't know who spoke the words.  
Deep inside, they were still one; the connection lingered within him so strong and undisturbed that this close, they could have as well still shared his body.

 

  
*

  
The yellow glow of Dean's flashlight swept across the corridor between the stalls and illuminated next to nothing beyond the primary area it affected at a time. The string of the lamp had gotten stuck around his belt and he was growing more and more frustrated trying to solve the knot when he had so much more pressing issues to attend to, but finally he felt it loosening around his fingers and with a single more tug, the light was free. He raised it higher and scanned the room, uncertain if he should be yelling or not.  
When he reached the main door and had still had no sign of Sam whatsoever, he called the younger's name out in the dark. In the corner of the room he saw the round, small shape of the cat they'd scared earlier - out of a whim, he aimed the flash towards it. The cat squinted lazily, opened its mouth as if to meow and then jogged away, looking uncannily disgruntled for a feline. The corner which it had occupied had multiple now ragged-looking spider webs stretching from wall to wall and floating eerily in the wake of the cat's movements.

"Sam!?" Dean shouted again.

No response. He could hear the skittering between the walls, and was for once glad to know it was probably rats this time. Under current circumstances and especially with the cat around, he much rather had rats than a ghost nearby.

Then, just when he was about to turn and check the equipment room, he noticed that the front door of the stable was slightly ajar. He felt stupid; he should have noticed the barrier had been pushed away, but he had been too busy thinking of cats and rats and ghosts. A mistake like that could have easily cost him his life and when he pushed the door aside, the sound of its rusted top grinding against the rail like thunder in the dark, he was still mainly concentrated on scolding himself.

The night air was cold and he breathed out clouds of white. A lone lamp was still shining a ghastly greenish light above what they'd assumed was a hay storage. Dean wondered where it got its electricity from, since nothing else in the lot seemed to be powered. He slipped out through the doors and chose to leave the door ajar again in case he'd have to make a quick retreat back indoors - if something would slip inside while he was out, well, it'd have to face off with three capable survivors indoors, two of whom were experienced hunters of the supernatural sort and the remaining one a millenia old ex-soldier of God; Dean had a funny feeling he could risk them over his own sorry ass alone in the dark.  
As he moved cautiously along the side of the stable towards a suitable crossing point across the open ground between him and the door of the other building, a lone breeze caressed his skin and thrust its slender fingers up his hair. It was warmer than he'd expected but once it was gone, nothing in the night moved. His footsteps, no matter how quiet he tried to make his movements, all echoed between the walls, the small pebbles crunching against the soles of his boots and each other. Then, piercing in the quiet of the night, a long, high-pitched scream tore through the choir of cicadas. Dean nearly stumbled back from the shock of it, his heart aching from the strain as it raced in his chest; the scream turned lower, vibrated and died down.

"A freaking elk? You've GOT to be kidding me. Jesus Christ," Dean muttered; hearing his own voice calmed him down some, but his ears were still ringing.  
The adrenaline pumping through him set him across the yard. He reached the opposite building with little issue and no further interruption, the barks of the damn cervids now an occasional companion to the other sounds in the night. Somewhere further away, a lone owl was hooting; it seemed to Dean like the nature had suddenly turned up the volume just to mess with him.

In the lock of the door, the ring of keys from the equipment room hung unmoving. Dean stared at them for a moment before pulling the door open and facing the pitch black hay-smelling darkness inside.

 

  
*

"We can still fix this, Sam. We can still make it all better. You seem to think that I wish to punish you; I do not. I only wish to see you back on my side. I showed you, Sam, the world I wish to create and you agreed that it was beautiful. I remember. The means to an end... I wish it didn't have to be that way. I truly wish the bloodshed could be avoided. But it cannot. The resistance will not stop, the mountains will not move unless we _make_ them move."

Sam kneeled on the dusty floor and thought he could see light between the rotting planks. He wondered where on earth he was, or _thought_ he was. From somewhere far away, he could hear Dean's voice calling for him.

"Is that - is that your brother, Sam?"  
Lucifer joined him on the floor, kneeling like he was, and sought eye contact to him. Slowly, Sam rose his gaze to give that to him.  
"I was certain I'd - ah, never mind. That _is_ your brother. Most curious, I would say."

"It wasn't you," Sam mumbled, relieved as he realised all those things that he'd feared had happened had, in fact, truly been the creation of his mind and nothing more.

He turned his gaze back down and wasn't expecting the hand on his shoulder.

"I would never hurt you. You mean the world to me, Sam. We still have time. What do you say? Is it me - or do you choose them still? I've explained myself to you over and over again. You know me, through and through, I am more of a brother to you than Dean ever was or will ever be. Look what he's become. Look what crimes he's committed. Look how _different_ he is from the one they called the _Righteous_ Man."  
Lucifer let out a sound that resembled a fond chuckle, a hum that in their surroundings sounded muffled and soft.  
"I will not change," he continued then, "I am constant, unchanging, and I have a purpose. Sam... come back to me. Come back to me and we will create a paradise on earth together."

 

  
*

The ladder up creaked at each step Dean took, but it was sturdy and locked in place, so despite its noisy nature, he didn't feel all that doubtful about climbing up. When he got there, he at first saw nothing but the tightly packed cubes of hay everywhere, but then, in the middle of the fuzzy walls on the dusty clearing he saw his brother, standing just out of the light. He turned the light to him and Sam squinted, raising a hand to cover his eyes.  
"Hey, point that somewhere else," the younger uttered, blinded.

"The hell are you doing here?"

"I heard some noises," Sam replied, taking steps towards him.  
  
Dean lowered the light and climbed up.  
"Noises? All across the yard to the locked-up room? What the hell?"

Sam shrugged.  
"Yeah. It sounded like something was trapped in here. I thought it was worth checking out but - I've found nothing. Why are you up, anyway?"

Dean stared at him.  
"Oh, I don't know, maybe because nobody was on guard and you'd vanished into thin air?"

Sam's brows knit closer together and he kneeled next to Dean.  
"I wasn't gone all that long, Dean. Like ten minutes at most."

Dean hadn't quit staring.  
"Dude. You've been gone like an hour or more."

"What? No I haven't," Sam countered, looking bewildered.

"Yeah, you have. Jesus Christ, Sam. Just come down from here now, okay? We need to get back before they come looking for us. I left Ellen to watch over Cas and Jo and she said if we're not back soon, she'll wake the rest up too."

He slid down onto the ladders again and started climbing down. His still baffled brother followed him down, and Dean noticed that his grip was weak and his legs trembling, but he said nothing about it; it started seeming more and more plausible that Sam had been sleepwalking, because nothing about the whole deal made any sense to him yet the younger seemed to be sane and in control regardless of his illogical behaviour.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked as they turned to walk back, "Because I'm going to squirt you with some holy water as soon as we get there and if there's a hellbitch in you, we can skip the bullshit and just fight already."

"No, I'm good. Seriously, Dean. I don't care if you throw me in a holy pool or cut me with a silver sword, I'm me, I swear."

"Okay," Dean huffed.  
"I believe you. I'm just never letting you take guard duty again."

Sam grimaced but said nothing. Of course, there was nothing to be said; if a guard thinks he's out of position for ten minutes when he really could have been for hours, anyone can see that he isn't much of a guard at all. Dean felt increasingly stupid by the minute for letting the younger take the responsibility in the first place. Even if he was lucid, he had the sleep debt of a dead man. It wasn't the first time he'd behaved oddly when that was the case, although the last instance of actual sleepwalking had occurred when the kid hadn't yet hit the double digits. Underneath the relief he felt, a certain sense of frustration was building up to soon replace it.

"Good that you didn't get eaten. Man, I wish it'd help to just beat your ass over this - you scared the hell out of me."

Sam shrugged.  
They closed the barn door behind them and Dean confiscated the keys - the ring was too large to fit in his pocket so he had to keep it in his hand together with the flashlight.  
  
"So what did you think you heard?" he asked as they got closer to the stable.

Sam frowned, thoughtful.  
"I thought it sounded like a person trapped in there."

"Goddamnit, Sam, it could've been a croat."

The younger tilted his head in submission.  
"I guess."

"No, you don't _guess_ \- do you have _any_ idea of where you are, Sam? What year it is?"  
Dean slammed his hand on the stable door to prevent Sam from going in - the younger looked at him with a lost expression.  
"Why don't you even get angry at me anymore? Any time before, you'd at least -"

"Well, Dean, I don't really know anything, do I? I _don't_ have an idea, I _don't_ know what year it is, I'm just blindly following the only guy I can trust and you know what? I don't even know who the hell you are anymore. You look like my brother but that's about it; you don't talk like my brother and you don't walk like my brother and I _know_ my brother, Dean. I don't know you. So while you're aiming all that patronizing bullshit on me, how about you look in the mirror, too? You're behaving like I'm both nine and one of your - one of your disposable little soldiers. Like I'm insane."

Although Sam could most likely see the hurt in his eyes, Dean allowed him to look and didn't turn away. Instead, he grimaced and shook his head, sliding the rusted door open again.  
"There it is. Got a little spark in you, didn't I? Come on. We need to report in."

"Wha-"

"Just come inside, Sam, you can continue tearing me apart later."

They crossed the empty, horse-smelling stalls in an awkward, uncertain silence after reinforcing the doors in an even thicker version of the same. Ellen opened the base room's door for them and gave them both a serious, stern look, but she asked no questions.  
When they were inside and she stayed to lock the door behind them, Dean couldn't say he was surprised at the feel of lukewarm water being sprinkled on his neck.  
"We're human, Ellen," he informed her tiredly.

"A hunter's gotta do what a hunter's gotta do, Dean," the woman grimaced, "get back in bed and sleep some, it's still a few hours to dawn."


	58. Radio

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Dawn broke earlier than Dean would have wanted it to. He opened his swollen eyes to see Castiel looking at him with a crooked smile on his face and only then realised the thing he'd woken up to was the male's finger tracing his lips in secret. The room smelled of a cool morning, a shed, some horses and a good dose of fresh coffee mixed up together, but none of it was more welcome than the feeling Dean was overcome with by the way he'd been woken up.

"Rise and shine, boys, it's time for breakfast," Ellen called loudly and by the sound of it was banging a pan with her gun.

"God," Sam muttered on Dean's other side.  
He shifted and sat up as Dean rolled on his back, letting out a deep sigh. Sam rubbed at his neck and yawned. While Dean was still contemplating getting up, Castiel had already stood up and was pulling on a shirt to accompany his cloth pants he'd apparently slept in. He was sitting by the table with a cup of steaming hot black coffee when Dean finally sat up and watched Sam perform what appeared to be a morning yoga session.

Jo wasn't there, but the door was open and the stable bathed in clear, fresh yellow sunlight, and judging by the clarity of the sounds of birds singing outside, the back door was open as well. When Dean had finally pulled himself up from the sleeping bag, he heard the truck's door slam closed outside and considered his conclusion about Jo's location confirmed.  
Sluggishly he made his way to the table and landed heavy on a chair next to Castiel. The older took his cup from him when he'd only just picked it from the remaining two set in the middle of the table and filled it up for him. Dean didn't even remember to thank him: his brain was still mostly asleep, but the angel didn't seem to care either way or even like he'd expected to be thanked in the first place. All things considered, he likely had not.

"Morning, guys," Jo greeted them from the doorway.  
Dean raised a hand at her, not bothering to look, but Castiel stood up and went to her to help her with the heavy bag she'd brought in. They carried it across the remaining distance up to the table together and when they laid it on the wooden surface it made a loud, heavy knocking sound accompanied by multiple lighter, metallic sounds.

"Oh, so you just thought you'd go through the whole armory on the breakfast table?" Dean huffed, pulling down the bag's open end to glance inside.  
Ellen slapped his hand down and he had a feeling this was becoming something so common he should probably expect it coming. Shrugging, he turned back to his coffee.

"Thanks for agreeing to help us," the woman grinned at him, patting his messy hair and then sliding out of his reach like a ghost.  
Sam leaned past Dean and the bag and picked the last cup on the table, filled it with coffee and was gone before Dean had properly registered his presence. With a worn huff the older decided he had better start waking up, and with that thought in mind he forced himself up from the seat.  
"Okay, what do you need me to do?"

"Your own damn job, for one."

Dean grimaced awkwardly.  
"If you feel like dusting off our arsenal, I'll help you with it," Castiel offered.

"Sam, you better join us, or I'll tell Ellen that you fancy Jo."

Sam choked on his coffee.  
"What? Dude - I'm - what?"

Ellen laughed.  
"Think he might be projecting a little?"

 

  
*  
  


Two hours later they were in the car again with a full day of driving waiting for them. Cas was behind the wheel - Dean was glaring at him like he had already wrecked the thing but considering he was the only one who'd slept a full night, no matter how badly, it made sense to put him there. Dean would have preferred to take it upon himself but even now he was hardly functioning, and he didn't trust Sam to do much better on the matter even though that was mainly for a different reason than which plagued him.  
"And you don't drive this thing like you drive your damn jeep, you got that?"

Castiel grinned - he barely glanced at Dean before starting the car.  
"What, you think I can't make this car fly over a few bumps? That I can't handle a rough road? What am I, a lady?"

"Stop," Dean grimaced and brought his fingers over his eyes, pressing gently to stop the headache he suspected was not far from happening, "You know damn well it's about the car and not your ego, and if you drive my baby into a single godsdamned puddle or you damage her in any manner no matter how small, I'm going to personally skin you alive and use you for croat bait. You know I'm serious."

"Yeah, you've done that before. Well, maybe except for the skinning part, though you've tried - I still have scratch marks all over my b-"  
  
"WHOA, whoa - guys, I'm still here, remember?" Sam yelped from the backseat where he'd tried to make himself comfortable, "Way, way too much information."

"You heard the man, Cas. Shut up and drive."

Still grinning, Castiel turned the car and followed the pickup truck back on the road. Jo was driving - her guard shift  had lasted a shorter while than they'd expected due to Sam's midnight disappearance and as such, she was more than able to handle the first round of the day. The roads here were in better condition than the ones they'd travelled the previous day and they anticipated to make progress quickly enough. Given that they had to take a detour across a potential military zone and account for all the damaged roads they'd have to take instead of the main ones, Dean estimated them to enter Kansas territory in some odd eight to ten hours.  
The borders were strictly guarded as well; Ellen had lead them through the border between South Dakota and Nebraska effortlessly yesterday and Dean had known the roads from Missouri to Sioux Fall just fine from before, but from what they'd learned earlier in the morning over collective gun care was that nobody really knew much about the Nebraskan borders on Kansas side.

Ellen had recharged her satellite phone and was trying to call through her contacts to assure the safest route for Dean's group to take; the base they were all headed for was on the Nebraska side, and Ellen had last travelled from there to Kansas some sixteen months earlier. That information was much too old to be trusted.  
Around one and a half hours into driving, Sam had fallen asleep and Dean had slipped to the corner between the seat and the car door, chin against his chest and eyes tracing the fields around them growing wilder and wilder the further they moved from the guarded areas to the east. He had the map laid across his stomach but was barely looking at it - Ellen's car was leading and he'd noticed he could trust their senses just fine. Not that he put their lives in their hands in full, of course; he checked often enough to make sure they stayed far from the coloured areas and known croat zones. It just seemed pointless to look for a road he'd take on the map when they were already travelling that.

He also had the information on Horsemen to his side, exactly where Sam had left it; he hadn't opened it. He didn't feel like opening it now, either, although he thought about it often. What he really wanted to do was to slip his hand across the space between him and Castiel and caress his thigh until he'd be hard and all kinds of discomfortable, and the thought of that did nothing but cause his own body to imitate the state he'd wished he could have inflicted on the angel.  
  
With a dissatisfied grunt, Dean finally pulled himself up and started going through the music collection. A couple of the casettes were ruined; seeing that made him feel sad, even though they were just casettes and getting more wouldn't have been much of an ordeal. The problem was that these casettes he knew; they'd travelled with them for years and years, and it wasn't quite the same to trade or make new ones, because those recordings wouldn't be the ones he'd used when life had still not been checked-and-certified 100% quality crap.  
After a long battle over the choices, he discarded the whole deal. His eyes turned towards the radio and slowly like a hunting cat he rose from his position and leaned towards it. Castiel was glancing at him - the road was straight and in such a good condition there were no foreseeable major faults in its surface, so he could well sacrifice that second to wonder what the younger was up to.

Dean looked at him and they shared a moment of determined silence, through which Castiel was still trying to ask him what the hell and he was simply gathering courage to do it - then he flicked on the radio and found a whole lot of white noise.  
Castiel looked back at the road and his fingertips tapped at the wheel to signal slight anxiety.  
The younger felt discouraged by the noise the radio was throwing at him but he was still determined; this far up nowhere, the only working channels had often been the ones with aggressive Christian preachers screaming damnation, and that he didn't miss so much.  
  
His heart jumped at the sound of something that vaguely resembled distorted speech pushing through seven layers of bad signal; when he tried to return to it however, it was as good as gone.  
"Cas?" he mumbled to the radio.  
The angel responded with a muffled sound acknowledging he was being addressed.

"Mind shedding some of your fairy dust on this mission?" Dean grinned.  
His fingertips were still bent over the nub and he was practically holding his breath although he was certain it wouldn't work. What else he would have done with his time?

"I'd gladly fluff up and shake off some divine powder from my down feathers as a blessing upon your heroic mission, but uh, you know, my wings are kind of as good as gone. Please check in later when we return the world back on its track and I'm reborn whole and everything is good with unicorns chasing rainbows on every field and I'll be glad to be of service, Dean Winchester."

"Good enough for me," the younger chuckled and tuned in on the frequency where his favourite local channel had once existed.  
He choked on his breath when Alice Cooper's  _School's Out_ started playing on full volume.

"Dean - I swear I will kill you with my bare hands if you don't turn that thing OFF," Sam's voice carried over the music from the back.

Dean let out a victorious shriek, turned around on his seat so that the map fell off from his lap, and he reached for Sam's hand, pulled it up and high-fived it before the man had woken up enough to have a mind of his own on the matter.  
"It's the RADIO, Sam! These guys are actually still alive and well enough to stream music. Awesome."

"Yeah, uh, I don't care, Dean - turn it off."

"No way in hell," Dean grinned and slipped back on his seat.  
He considered for a moment turning the volume down, but he just couldn't quite do it yet.  
When the song soon died out to make way for insurance advertisements, he finally did reach for the volume and lowered it back to humane levels. Sam climbed up from the seat and hung himself over the back of the front seat.

"That's... kind of funny, actually," he spoke quietly.

"Yeah?"

"That they're selling insurance. That there's a radio channel, firstly, and that they're selling advert time for insurance companies. It's... normal."

Dean snorted. He turned to face Sam and looked at him, speechless for a moment as he found out he really didn't have the words to describe how spot-on Sam was about it.  
The feeling he'd gotten from hearing a radio channel on... it was unlike any he'd had in a while. They'd been so far off in the woods in Missouri that there was no chance for a single station to be alive there, and every time they'd gone out, the thought of trying to look for one hadn't even crossed his mind. The only channels he'd had for years had been the hacked army- and official frequences.  
Now here they were, driving across Nebraska with another car in the lead, listening to radio streaming classic rock and security and insurance advertisements, the day was sunny and warm and nothing - absolutely nothing - looked or sounded like the end of the world.

"Man, I love today already."  
  


*  
  


  
"I'm buying that," Castiel said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the radio that was currently running an advert on a convenience store selling, amongst other things, hammocks at half the price, "We never got me one of those despite everyone always promising they'd look for one. I mean, who would have thought that in the apocalypse everyone just wanted to take a hammock home? You guys had all the time in the world to buy you a houseful of those and instead, all of you just figured that a hammock is _the_  thing you need to grab with you to prepare for the end."

"Shut up, Cas, I'm trying to figure out what I want to buy. What did I already have? The grill set - and cheap ammunition?"

"Don't forget the ticket to the petting zoo I bought you," Sam reminded his brother.  
He'd decided to keep leaning over onto the front seat's backrest despite it having to be quite an uncomfortable position to stay in for a longer period of time.

"Right. Okay, let's say I steal a chicken and a goat from the petting zoo that Sam wants to take me to, so I need - rope, that's at $3.90 per foot, right? Okay, so I have rope for the goat, and I need... What can I get with my remaining ten dollars that can hold a chicken? A wooden box? Has any advert so far tried to sell us wooden boxes?" Dean asked.

In front of them, the truck started slowing down and heading for the side of the road. Castiel followed in suit.

"Didn't that one advert sell that really expensive fence?" Sam replied uncertainly.  
  
"You're right," Castiel confirmed, "White fence."

"Crap, I can't afford that. Cas, buy my chicken a fence."

"Only if you marry me," Castiel responded cheerfully as the car came to a full stop.

Dean stared at him.  
"Dude, I'm not marrying you for a fence."

"God," Sam's muffled moan carried over the sound of the car turning off as he landed back in his seat.

Dean was the first out, then Castiel, and just behind him the tallest; Ellen marched to them looking cheerful and Jo was already leaning to the truck's end by the time they met in the middle. The older woman was carrying their map and she spread it out for the three men to view. Her finger moved to point at an area over the border.

"Here," she said, "is a little travelled road that the hunters use to get to Kansas and back. They warned me that nobody should be going over there now, but I assured them I'm only theoretically interested in it for future reference. It's relatively close to two military outposts and you should be careful of course, but so far, I couldn't get a hang of anyone who'd ever seen a patrol or anyone else on the path while travelling through."

Dean nodded. Castiel had already turned back and Dean assumed he was off to get their map. Soon enough his gut feeling was confirmed - the angel marked off the location on their map with a small red oval and motioned them over to the Impala. There, he laid the map on the hot black metal and leaned over it. Ellen laid her map next to it and pulled the marker out of Castiel's hand.  
"These are military zones?" she asked, turning the marker upside down and knocking at the zones in Dean's map.

"Marked a month ago, should be still active, yeah," Dean confirmed.  
He brought his finger over to another zone marked by messy pencil lines.  
"This is a croat hot zone. It's huge - you can see, you could make a national park out of it - and it's not marked on any official records as anything but an area to avoid, if even that. It's not dense but there are a hell of a lot of croats in that area for some reason, so you'd be better off marking it as well. What's that?"  
He pointed over on Ellen's map to a list of coordinates drawn over Canada.

"Safe spots," Ellen answered him, "Bases, camps, black markets. Croat-proofed hunting cabins, bunkers, you name it. I can make you a list if you want."

"Thanks. That's Chitaqua, right?" Dean asked, tapping one of the locations.

"Yup, that's Chitaqua. Red marker, means 'avoid the hell out of this place unless chased by Satan himself' - I mean, I don't think you'd have shot us, but you're also not known as being particularly friendly."

Dean laughed.  
"Yeah, we aren't. Okay, so reds are unfriendly, I guess blue's just basic?"

"Yep. Green's our hideout, I won't be giving you the code for that."

"Okay, have it your way. Can I get the number for your phone as well?"

"It's hardly ever on - gotta save the battery - but hell, why not. Give me a moment, I'll put this on something that isn't already full of markings," Ellen chuckled nodding at their scribbled-over, crumbled map and with that she turned and returned to the truck.

"Can I have a moment to stretch my legs?" Castiel asked, watching the meadow next to which they'd parked.

"Sure, I guess? I'm actually just headed for the bush myself - Sam?"

Sam acknowledged him with a nod.  
"I'll look over the list and when you're back..."

"Okay."

 

*

  
Castiel wandered along the barely visible edge between what had a year ago still been a field but what was now growing grass, bush and wild flowers between the uneven, untended rows of corn. It appeared that the owners had left before harvest, which implied it had been an emergency; the evacuations in locations with little croat activity or threat of it had been pushed back to allow harvests in order to give people at least a chance at building up a new life in a safer area. Or perhaps the owners of this particular place had simply died or worse, gotten infected - there was no telling. Some people had outright refused to leave and while many were still kicking, even whole functioning towns full of survivors where the croats could be fought back still, there were many more who hadn't stood much of a chance despite their dedication.

He knew next to nothing about it all; he'd spent his time with Dean and the information he'd heard hadn't so much been about the world around as it had been Colt, Colt, Colt, Colt, Lucifer, Colt, killing Lucifer, Colt, Colt, newly established military zones and croat hot zones and finally the Colt again. The very thought of all those long nights spent huddled over maps and numbers or with his nails digging into his palms as he listened to the screams of the poor bastards caught for Dean's interrogations made him want to get high again. To his equal relief and great frustration, his pills were packed deep in the car and he wasn't going to sneak them out without being seen.

Regardless of his will and wishes his hands still trembled a little to signal the growing need, and the firm knowledge of impossibility did not tone the pain down either.

Within a minute he'd reached the batch of trees growing at the joining of three fields. Sighing heavily, he dropped against one of the trunks to rest; his fingers slid down his pocket and played around with the tightly tied-up minigrip that contained what little he'd separated from his waning reserves of weed. He breathed in and out again wondering if that was off limits, and whether he should care - if he'd go there to easen the withdrawals, hell, to relax even, who would he let down? He could afford letting Dean down on this. He was fighting two wars for him, smoking a joint would hardly count as betrayal of trust, especially in comparison to all the man had done against _him._ He owed Dean nothing, not this and not the promises he knew he'd actually made and was set on keeping. So would he let himself down and if so, was it worse than trading off the discomfort in turn? Even more so, did he need it now? He'd refrained through suffering a gunshot wound to the stomach - did he need this now when his only problems were some minor aches and cravings?

A small smile passed the fallen angel's lips. He raised his eyes towards the sky, now gathering white clouds over the deep shade of blue. He examined their slow movement and the changes in their shapes, counted the darker spots in the middle of some of them and the number of pure whites hanging lightly amongst the heavier ones. No, he did not need this now. He'd keep the bag with him, if not for anything else then just for the thrill of the conflict: would he or would he not eventually give up, perhaps decide it wasn't worth the fight over anyway? This wasn't a weakness either, at least not from his own perspective. It was a habit, even less dangerous in an emergency than Dean's drinking was. A joint wouldn't make him incapable to fight but being drunk could make anyone useless. The fearless leader was definitely not an exception to this rule.

Castiel closed his eyes and chuckled quietly. He needed to hear that sound, everything felt so unreal around him; the sounds of the birds, the wind in the corn stalks and even the feel of the ground underneath him. It was part of the withdrawals, a certain level of disassociation combined with dizziness and a sense of weakness, he'd already learned that much.  
It still made him feel afraid.

He sat still for a few more minutes before getting up, and once he was standing again, he aimed a pondering gaze at the scenery ahead of him, realising he'd spent the whole day so far without excusing himself from the company of the others. Small creases formed between his brows when he realised he really had no need to take that break now, either, although he'd had three cups of coffee in the morning and half a bottle of water since, as the car tended to get pretty hot under direct sunlight.

That was strange.

With a shrug and a submissive tilt of his head he turned around again to wander back to the car. Dean would give him hell when his biology would finally rediscover itself, but it wasn't like he could force it to happen if it wasn't going to on its own.


	59. Camp Paranoia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex is hitting some serious magical negro points in this chapter and thus I promise and spoil you, to perhaps make you not immediately dislike him as a terrible stereotype, that he isn't very magical at all. 8|

 ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

It was late in the evening when they reached the crossroads point in front of which Ellen stopped her truck. They now stood at the mouth of the worst-kept road Dean had encountered so far. It looked nearly too damaged to travel, but not much of it was visible before it made a turn and disappeared behind the thick foliage of the trees that surrounded it from all angles. They were in the middle of a forest, and Dean, who'd driven the last stretch of the day, was content knowing they were close to their destination. Sam was sleeping against the door next to Dean, and Castiel had been resting on the backseat just moments ago before the car had started slowing down and the change had woke him up. Now the angel was sitting and rubbing at his face as Dean turned off the engine.  
He rolled down the window as Jo jogged towards them from the car.

"You've got to continue by foot. There's another road less than half a mile from here where you can hide the Impala - the trees are thick there so she should be just fine, don't worry. You'll find us at the end of this beauty here, there's a cottage and - well, it's usually heavily guarded, so you'll know when you get there because we'll have told them you're coming. And hopefully they're feeling trustful and don't shoot you."

"Half a mile there?"

"To the left."

"Thanks, Jo."

Jo scoffed.  
"Don't thank me. Okay, one last thing?"

"Yeah?"  
Dean felt Castiel's breath against the side of his neck as the angel leaned forwads to peer out the window as well.

"You must've seen the sign a couple miles back, right? Croat danger zone. So whatever you do - no matter how close you are - don't ever drop your guard. I haven't seen any since last December but they frequent here. They  _hunt_  here. So stay safe," the blonde spoke and her mouth was but a thin line as she clenched her jaw.

"We'll be okay, Jo, we're all grown men here. How long's the road?"

Jo frowned and glanced back at it.  
"Something like... two miles? It's long enough, anyway. And that's just to the gates, the fenced area covers an old hunting track going on for another half. So you'll be doing some walking."

"Good that most of us are almost up to that," Castiel chuckled and landed back on his seat.  
He started gathering up his bags and Dean let out a heavy, unwilling sound at the realisation he'd have to carry the damn heavy weapons and foods and everything else that was in the trunk with them, since they could hardly risk losing everything in case someone  _did_  find the car.  
It'd be a long walk.

"See you later," Jo said when nobody was addressing her anymore.  
She leaned in from the window and kissed Dean on the cheek. The first sign of life from Sam was the chuckle he let out at the sight.

"Are you jealous? You're jealous," Dean grinned and punched him on the arm, "You're also going to carry my bag, too. We're going to have a ton to bring up there and back to the car tomorrow."

"We could just leave them here, Dean. I'll stay in guard," Castiel offered, "Less trekking with the heavy bags."

Dean looked at him for a moment and nodded.  
In four minutes he was back in the car with Sam, and all of their things were sitting on the dusty ground around Castiel, who seemed content caressing his gun and listening to the sounds of the nightfall around them.  
Jo and Ellen and their truck had already, if slowly and now clearly suffering from the bumps and pits in the ground, vanished into the dark of the forest, and the rest of them weren't even offered the benefit of moonlight, as within the last couple hours of driving, the sky had been all but overcast once again. It didn't spell for rain but it did spell pitch black darkness in a croat zone while they were already encumbered, and Dean hoped that they wouldn't run into any trouble, big or small, along the way. He was much too done with today to bother with anything - if it'd come to fighting for his life under those conditions, he'd rather just get a warning beforehand so he could put a bullet in his head to save the croats the trouble.

They drove on for a while, slowly passing through the forest with their headlights burning holes in the dark. A pack of deer bounced over once but besides that, the night was still and unchanging. Finally, a small but to Dean's delight well-preserved pathway turned deeper into the forest on their left. He turned the car there and drove on until it widened into an opening that had probably been used to load trucks with logs; he parked the Impala there as close to the thick maples growing at the sides as he humanely could to ensure the car wasn't visible to the road. Sam fumbled around for his flashlight and handed Dean one, too. They exited the car and locked the doors and stood still for a moment in darkness to ensure there was no movement nearby. Once he felt it was safe to do so, Dean raised his thumbs and they both lit the flashlights up at the same time.  
It was still vital to proceed in silence; they'd been warned about croats and they both knew what it meant, so although they walked on with a good pace, they both made sure to do so as quietly as possible.

Wind rustled the leaves around them in a violent gust as they first laid their feet on the asphalt road again. It was a small, thin stretch that gave birth to unpaved trails much like the one they now left behind mainly by crumbling onto them and more than a couple past winters had left its back open like a thin and wide black grimace. It was hard to believe that there was life nearby, and that this road was still relatively frequently used by people. From what Ellen had said about the stop, this was a safehaven for hunters and hunters only, a large cabin with grounds full of hidden storeaways for goods that even the military struggled to keep themselves stacked with. In short, it was a secret paradise, and the best part, at least where Dean was concerned, was that it offered you a bed and a bacon breakfast.  
The inhabitants all changed with the exception of Candice, the owner of the place. She sounded like an interesting enough character and descriptions such as that usually spelled trouble.

After about eight minutes of walking there was a loud crack from deeper in the forest that stopped them both to their tracks. Instinctively, they pulled up closer to each other, both standing facing a direction that covered as much of the ground as they could together achieve and stood waiting, flashlights pointing about towards the approximate direction of the sound even now that the echo had died down.  
A lone owl was hooting, its sound different from the one they'd heard the previous night.

"Dean?" Sam mumbled, "I think it's the deer. They crossed here."

"Holy damn."

"Yeah. Let's keep moving."

They didn't hear or see anything of particular interest again before reaching Castiel, who was crouched in the middle of their bags and pointed his flashlight straight at them when they approached. Sam raised his on level with the angel's eyes to get back at him, whereas once their little lamp fight was over, Dean pulled up his gun and licked the barrel of it from base up to the mouth so slowly that Castiel  _had_  to see it.  
When they stood in front of him, Dean knew he had seen it from the way the male now looked at him. It didn't take his knowledge of the older to see just how well his tease had worked.

"Pick and choose, gentlemen," the angel grunted, pulling up the food bag to accompany his personal belongings.

He reached down to pick up one of the smaller bags as well and lifted it up on his remaining shoulder. They all needed their armed hand free, able and ready to shoot and the remaining hand had to have the space and strength left to carry and aim the flashlight, so picking and choosing had to be done carefully. Dean took the weapons - the bag was so heavy it would need to be traded off for something else a couple times during the walk, but for now, he was good. He picked his personal bag to carry as well; the bottles inside collided, making the small clear sound Dean had heard many times while making love for the first time with the angel, and his eyes instantly flashed towards the male. Castiel turned his gaze down and grinned, clearly thinking along the same trails.

Sam pulled up the remaining bags: his own and the general necessities. Their filled water bottles and many other kinds of non-vital resources and equipment was still in the car, so what Sam carried wasn't very heavy at all. It worked well that way, as Sam would inevitably have to share the weight of the weapons bag for half the journey.

Once all packed like mules with one hand on a flashlight and the other never too far from the handle of a gun, they started upon the road pointed out for them. Wind was picking up and sometimes it penetrated the natural walls around them forcefully enough to blow through their clothes, the result of which was that every now and then none of them could actually hear anything, and a mysterious string on Dean's jacket kept hitting him in the face. He couldn't pin it down no matter where he pushed it, always as unsure where it came from in the first place.  
At other times they made progress more steadily, each avoiding stepping on the gravel that still had an edge over grass in the middle of the road and instead the two brothers walked the left side of the road while the angel travelled on the right side. Perhaps because of how Castiel moved or due to the ground being different on that side Dean soon noticed that while both him and Sam made very little sound as they walked, Castiel seemed to make none whatsoever as if he was floating rather than walking, even with the bags on his shoulders.

Another gust of wind made their clothing flap again and threw sticks and leaves across the light cast on the path ahead. Sometimes something bigger than expected fell from the trees - a pinecone from a lone, invisible coniferious tree trying to infiltrate the deciduous reign around it made Dean jump, for example - and sometimes something just swept past at a too close range to be ignored, and occasions like that made them all more and more nervous and jumpy with each passing moment. The reason wasn't so much in avoiding the completely harmless things flying at them from random directions but more that every time someone did, the remaining two caught up to it and readied themselves to fight, adrenaline shooting through their veins even when nobody actually made a move to start any fight, since there wasn't one to be had. It didn't make a difference to what their instincts said: another in the group seeing something, anything, which alerted them was a warning message to their brains, and those alerts just kept piling up.

The ground was treacherous too, and soon after Dean had let go of the heaviest of his bags, he grew careless enough to forget to look at his feet. The result was that he hit an unexpected pit and nearly fell over, stumbling onwards a couple steps feeling both shocked and like an utter idiot - when he regained balance, Sam had pulled a gun out at him.  
The look they shared made both snort out loud, which in turn made Castiel pick up and throw a small rock at Dean in a frustrated attempt to get them back in line as his own alertness to the event slowly died down.  
  
At the end of all that there truly was a camp in the middle of the darkness. Dim lamps illuminated a rusted security gate in the middle of an equally rusted but well reinforced fence; on both sides stood a man with a gun, neither of whom looked anything like the military despite wearing gear that had clearly once belonged to the army.  
One of them walked behind the gate from its side to greet them. His fingers bent around the gate's chains and he smirked at them.  
"Weary, eh? It's quite a walk with all that stuff with ya."

He was a black man, and with the stark bright lights directly above him pulling a horrible contrast trick on his features, the best visible parts of him were his straight white teeth - one from the front was cut in half - and the whites of his eyes, effectively causing him to look like an actor in a cheap film plastered with terrible filters. His English had an accent to it; not a strong one, but one that along with the exceptionally dark tone of his skin implied he probably wasn't American born. Dean approached him first, fingers casually rubbing the handle of his gun as he walked.  
He responded to the cocky smirk with an even cockier grin and, once close enough, gripped the metal grid separating him from the premises. The man behind the fence didn't bat an eye at him. Instead he raised a brow at Dean in a relaxed manner and absently picked at the rough skin of his lower lip with his teeth.

"It's quite a walk alright. I'd like to end it, if that's okay," Dean stated in a confident manner, responding to the challenge hanging in the air between the groups.  
  
Behind the man stood a tall, butch white guy chewing gum; his blond hair peeked out from under his cap and he was following the exchange between the other guard and Dean with a crooked grin.  
"Alex," he called out to the black man, who turned only so far towards him.

"Ye?"

"Ellen's gonna whip your ass if you don't let them in and they get eaten alive, I'm just saying."

"Harvelles ain't the boss here."  
He turned back towards Dean and pressed his nose against the silvery mesh gate. He looked at Dean closely, taking his time; Dean kept the eye contact to him at all times, barely blinking. Castiel was standing close by now, and Sam just a step behind the two of them to the left.  
"Okay," Alex finally said, "Okay. You're all clean. I'm gonna unlock the gate for you. Just in time for supper, too, bet you ain't opposed to a good meal, eh. Hulk?"

"Eh?"

"I'm getting the hell out of here. Sending Truman out here instead."

"Suit yourself. I still have hours in guard."

The gate made a whiny sound as it opened up in front of them.

"C'mon, let me show ya'll to the door," Alex grunted and motioned them to follow.

Dean slid inside first and picked the second to lead spot in the malshaped group they formed.  
"Why's the guy called Hulk?" he asked amusedly as he accepted the heavy-as-hell bag from Sam again.

Alex glanced at him and chuckled.  
"Next to you guys, even I don't know," he said and lifted his hand much above his head.  
"He's kinda bulky, I guess."

They followed Alex up a trail to an alpine-style house. It looked a little under the weather with a patched roof and a new entrance build up on the second floor with a bridge-like construction leading up to the balcony-turned-porch, but it was a strangely attractive-looking place regardless. The ground floor was barricaded and resembled a thick wooden citadel wall more than it looked like an actual renovated floor, and the seriousness with which this group took its survival amused Dean. Hell, if their cabins had been just that much higher, their ground floors would look exactly the same as that one looked. Maybe even with...

"Is the wall  _actually_ ,  _seriously_  covered with small spikes?" he asked as they got closer.

"Ye. Some croats once tried to scale the wall. We thought it'd be the first and the last time, too."

Castiel chuckled.  
"Hey, leader, we finally found you some likeminded company."

Alex glanced back at him and, as if he'd found something new about him, stopped unexpectedly a step or two further from the door than Dean had expected. He examined Castiel for a moment and the angel replied to his gaze calmly. The black man frowned a little but said nothing of what bothered him.

"If you've got an issue with Cas, you better voice it," Dean said.  
His voice wasn't particularly threatening, more of pressing, implying they had no secrets on that front to keep and that he didn't want any trouble to come if it could be avoided. Alex had been reaching for the door but laid down his hand again, now looking at Dean for just a moment before turning toward Castiel again.  
Then he shook his head.

"Nah, man, we're good. Already called ya'll clean, that's what matters. He ain't any kinda monster I ever saw, grouping with you humans - so if he's a friend of Ellen's, he's good with me, too."  
He opened the door, letting out a stretch of light from inside the building. One click at a time the flashlights went off.

"I thought you said Ellen wasn't the boss here?" Dean huffed amusedly as they stepped indoors.

"Ellen ain't the boss but Ellen has the eyes and the ears."  
Alex didn't bother clarifying. He kicked off his boots and wandered off to the warm, brightly lit room ahead, disappearing through a doorway to another before the rest of them had even laid down the majority of their bags.  
The room they'd now entered was covered with a thick, fluffy red carpet that looked cleaner than any doormat Dean had seen in a long while.

"Whatever the hell that means," Dean uttered with a shrug.

"Why does everyone see right through me recently?" Castiel grunted, removing his shoes as he spoke, "I've worked on my human facade for years and it still fools a full total of zero people. The moment I get out of the camp, I get special treatment again."

"I don't know, Cas, you don't look much like a Hallmark angel to me."

"I'm  _not_  a Hallmark angel. I'm not even an angel - I'm a walking, talking blasphemy."

Sam brushed his hair off his face and glanced at Castiel.  
"I don't think anyone's defined it," he noted as if that clarified anything at all, "They've just established you're not strictly speaking a human."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" the angel asked with a grimace.

"No," Sam admitted, "I'm just wondering why they're not catching up on me, too."

Dean rolled his eyes.  
"Jesus Christ. Stop whining, both of you, you're human enough for a supper and a good night's sleep. C'mon, let's find Ellen and Jo," he sighed and laid his bare feet on the warm wooden floor that stretched across the room up until a lit doorway and a larger one opening up to the level above the ground floor, ready to scout the green zone.


	60. Apple of Apocalypse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy gods I have written the world's longest no-bullshit sex scene, and I'm sorry but to preserve the impression of set chapter length, I needed to awkwardly cut it before the good parts. Haha. Um. Sorry.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

They found the rest on the ground floor. The room was large - it appeared as if it had once been multiple rooms but had been turned into a large dining room at one point or another in its history, and besides the staircase, there were three doors leading out of it. One of them was the brightly lit kitchen, and its door was nothing but another large doorway; the two remaining doors were a mystery, but as they descended the stairs and as Dean was looking, one of them opened and a large blonde woman came out of what appeared to be the bathroom.

"Candice," Ellen called out from the table where she'd been hunched over a book - nobody was thus far paying the smallest amount of attention to the three men coming down the stairs.

"This book, where the hell did you get it?"

The large woman turned to her.

"I told you, Ellen, it's a treasure. Cost me a fortune, but you can have it if you have use for it. I was thinking 'bout you when I saw it and I have no use for that myself. I doubt anyone would buy it, not for a price I'd be willing to sell anyway."  
She spoke with a hint of a Southern accent and sounded cheery and energetic.  
  
Dean landed at the base of the stairs, turning his eyes towards the remaining people in the room: Jo and an Asian woman in her mid-20s.  
Jo looked up at him and her company followed in suit. Dean flashed an awkward grin at them and waved before turning to the opposite direction, heart fluttering - Sam brushed past him and went to sit with the women, while Castiel merely kept following Dean like a particularly protective lapdog.

Candice was still standing next to Ellen, but they'd now gained the attention of them both.

"Food's just in, boys. I'm Candice. I hear you're an adorable bunch but if you cause any trouble on my lawn, I'm going to shoot you full of holes and I won't be stopping when you're dead. Just a fair warning."  
  
She held out her hand and Dean grabbed it, smirking.  
"Dean," he introduced himself, "My brother Sam's the one who prefers the company of ladies to making a proper introduction - he's usually more polite than that."

"I bet he is, but he don't need to be now. And my, who's the charming one?" the woman chuckled, turning towards Castiel.

She was as tall as the two of them and not any thinner, either - she was in the formidable midfield of muscular and heavy with the look of a wrestler, but she was charming in the motherly way and Dean felt that he already respected her, something that didn't happen too often these days.

Castiel grinned as he picked her hand up and he planted a small kiss upon her knuckles, eyes on hers at all times. He'd adopted the smooth role that made Dean wish he could slap him; the transition was as fast and unexpected as a lightning strike every time, and it confused him - reminded him much too closely of possession to be comfortable. This wasn't his Castiel, this was... someone else. It creeped him out.

"I'm Castiel," the angel spoke in a warm, purring low tone of voice, "The faithful shadow of Dean's, entirely at your service as long as we benefit of the comfort of your home."

Candice raised her brows, stayed quiet for a brief moment and then broke into laughter. She brushed her hand over Castiel's cheek and shook her head.  
  
"My, aren't you just precious," she sighed before turning.  
"Sit down, all of you, except if someone wants to add wood in the fire. Ellen, thanks for bringing in some entertaining folk, I've been having the worst of weeks recently. It's been all drunks after drunks after a group of pure psychopaths, the sort o' folk you just dun wanna serve at all."

"My pleasure," Ellen responded absently, her full concentration on the book.

Dean glanced over at the fireplace and decided he was good as any to throw wood in it. He walked over to it - it was larger than average, deeper than average and hotter than average where he was concerned, and behind him, Castiel chose the place opposite from Ellen and leaned over the table to see what she was reading. She flicked him on the forehead, never raising her eyes from the book, but after just a second turned it around to let him look anyway.

Sam had stood up and was now making his way up to the kitchen where Candice had disappeared; Dean expected this was where he'd now enter his usual charming, polite introduction, and deduced he'd just had something to say to Jo that he'd wanted to get out of the way first.

He yawned as he pushed aside the old, charred wood in the pit to make room for a couple new ones. Expecting the fire was supposed to go on for a longer while still he chose thick, slow-burning ones from the almost full container set next to it. When they'd caught fire he stood up and made his way across the room to Jo and her companion. They were in the middle of a lively conversation already, but Dean didn't think he'd interrupt anything even if he made an entrance in the middle of it.

"Hello ladies," he grinned, hitting the chair that Sam had abandoned.

Jo rolled her eyes and slipped down in her seat, crossing her leg so that her toes were nearly on the lap of the woman next to her.

The older looked at Dean curiously.

"You're a hunter, I take it?" Dean asked her directly, since nobody seemed to be up for spontaneous introductions.

"Kind of," the woman replied, eyeing the man searchingly but not reservedly.

She ran her fingers through her thick black hair, neatly cut to reach just over her shoulders.

Jo poked her arm and chuckled.

"She's a hunter," she confirmed, "A special kind of one, though."

Dean raised a brow, assuming a more open, comfortable position.

"Yeah? Why all the mystery?"

"Because you're clearly interested," the woman spoke with a hint of a smile and reached for a glass on the table.

It contained clear liquid that was either water or something much stronger than that.

"You shouldn't take it too personally," Jo sighed dramatically, "Dean's into literally everything that walks, talks and has a rack on her."

"Seems like the type."

"Whoa," Dean snorted and found his hand from rubbing at the back of his neck, signaling he'd just been put way off his game, "That's rude."

"So are you," Jo grinned.

She stretched out her leg to rub at Dean's calf and laughed, turning to the woman.  
"Consider this outing a public service."

The woman laughed.

"Thank you, Jo. So - Dean, it's your move now."

Dean watched the two of them with an expression of both amusement and bemusement on his face, shook his head and chuckled.

"Okay," he laughed, still finding his footing in the situation, "So what's your specialty?"

"Croatoan," the woman replied with the same enigmatic smile on her, swirling the drink inside her glass and just glancing at Dean, pretending her all attention was concentrated on what she held and not him, "Outside red zones. I consider myself a hunter in the more traditional sense of the word. Not the supernatural type, the animal type, and the croatoans... they're nothing but animals. Dangerous animals. So I thin out the herd."

The bemusement on the man's face had switched out for an enlightened kind of respect.

"Damn," he muttered.  
"You also have a name, I assume?"

"Ning."

"Ning? That's pretty cool. Okay, Ning, I think we got off on the wrong foot here -"

"Oh my God, Dean Winchester, seriously?" Jo laughed, planting her head against her arm that she was resting on the table.

"- and I just want to say that I respect what you do and would rather not, due to this terrible start, find myself with a knife embedded real deep in my body when I wake up tomorrow."

Ning laughed.

"I think you're going to be okay, Winchester."

"Good. Great."

Dean lowered his gaze and coughed awkwardly.  
"So what were you two talking about, anyway?"

*

The dinner really was good. The place, while having the atmosphere of privacy and homeliness rather than the feel of a motel or a bed and breakfast, clearly did well enough to have what it took to prepare proper meals for those who stayed in. The main dish was meat with thick sauce and it was served with steamed potatoes and a variety of vegetables. On top they had fresh white bread and home-made cheese, and as if that wasn't enough, for dessert they had the best apple pie Dean had ever had in his life, or at least that was how it tasted like when he'd already given up hope on ever having one again.

At the end, Dean was beyond well-fed and felt like his clothes might not actually fit him anymore. He excused himself from the table to get some fresh air, not quite stuffed enough to prevent himself from snatching one more piece of the pie to accompany him on the way out. He also had another companion, uninvited as he was, as Castiel stood up and followed him to the now deserted balcony-porch.  
He closed the door behind them and stood by as Dean leaned over to the wooden railing separating the floor and the fall beyond. The younger breathed in and out deeply while absently gnawing at the bit of pie until it wasn't there anymore. He rubbed off the crumbles from his palm and watched them fall to the deep black nothing that was the grassy ground in the shadow of their fortress. From here, he could see the lights over the gate.

"Wanna explore?" he asked after a moment had passed in inactivity and silence.

Castiel shifted, he heard it behind him, and he could almost see his indecisiveness.

"I do," the angel said then, and to Dean's surprise, his voice had none of the uncertainty he'd expected.

He felt the male's palm on his shoulder and instinctively shifted towards it, wanting more, and he shivered a little as Castiel brought it down, fingertips running along his arm all the way down onto his wrist and his hand. Dean caught them there and held the angel's hand in his, finding it cooler than his own palm was.  
They started down the ramp, and Dean expected Castiel to be just as uninformed of whether or not they were even allowed on the grounds, but he didn't care. He just wanted some privacy and he wanted it with Castiel.  
Almost down, however, he realised he also wanted something more, and he stopped.  
"Cas, wait, I've got to -" he muttered, letting go of the other's hand and turning before any questions.

He returned inside just in time to face Ellen, who had clearly intended to take a breather herself.

"Well hello there," the older chuckled, "In a hurry?"

"Uh," Dean managed to blurt out.

Then he didn't know what to say.  
"Thought I was going to take a walk and just came over to grab something, that's all."

"Intend to stay long? It's past midnight, you know. I thought you guys preferred getting up early."

Ellen picked up her coat from the hanger nailed to the wall next to the door that Dean had barely taken notice of until then. He shrugged, falling on his knees to check his bag that was now neatly set aside next to the wall on the opposite side from the hanger.  
He wondered if Ellen had any idea just how much trust they were placing her connections by leaving their things just sitting there, but he'd been told the matter could be solved when they had their rooms picked, and he'd chosen to give the bunch a chance. He wondered if Candice was truly as formidable at keeping peace and order here as she'd assured she was - all the evidence pointed towards this being the truth.  
  
"I guess we're gonna stay a bit, yeah. There's not a curfew or anything?"

"Nope, you boys can take your time. They're large grounds, though, don't get lost. Want my advice?"

Dean picked out the wrapped-up shirt and moved it under his jacket to a hidden pocket on the inside. Then he stood up again and faced Ellen.

"Go ahead," he smiled at her, knowing full well the woman was currently reading him like an open book and counting together that evidence with the rest she knew about him.

"There's a trail that leads east from here. Follow that and you'll reach a creek, it has a small waterfall that should still have the spotlight installed, so you'll see it before you fall in it. Beside that there's a small shelter nearby. It's a pretty place. Not necessarily much so now in the middle of the night when you can't see the nature, but it's, you know, _quiet._ "

Dean swallowed and grimaced.

"Thanks, Ellen, I..."

"I know," Ellen sighed and shrugged, "Let's just pretend we didn't meet here at all."

"Yeah," Dean laughed, "I like that plan. Good night."

"The door under the stairs leads to another pair, the rooms are downstairs. Yours is gonna be the first on your right and since Candice owes me some, you're staying free of charge. Have fun. I'll get Sam to deal with the luggage, since you don't seem to be up for it."

"Just... stop, okay?" Dean chuckled embarrassedly, pushing open the door.

Once he was out of the way he stopped again and turned to face her.  
"You've done us one hell of a service already. I can't thank you enough."

"So don't try," the older said as she followed him out, "Just learn from it."

Dean didn't know what to respond so he left, awkwardly, and jogged down to Castiel. The angel held a flashlight but it wasn't turned on yet.

"Are we under arrest?" the male asked, smiling crookedly.

"Nope," Dean replied with a shrug, "but Ellen's way too sharp for me, so let's just... go. Quick before I die of embarrasment."

Castiel laughed as he turned on the flash and allowed Dean to take up the lead. They vanished from sight between the trees soon enough - the forest around the building's lawn was thick and pitch black from everywhere except the trail of light they created strictly in the middle of them. From sides, the flashlight's beam caught on the trunks of the trees and died out before reaching a third layer of them, and it barely illuminated any of the undergrowth at all.

The path was clear, however, and barely grew any grass on it for a lengthy while. At first multiple paths grew apart from it but since Ellen hadn't defined a single turn for them to take, Dean simply led them on along it until it was already turning scrubbier and more undefined.  
Eventually, however, the trees around them started growing less frequently, and finally the dim, almost greenish or blueish glow under the small, barely one foot tall waterfall grew at the edge of their limited visions. It sprinkled from between two large, wet stones that stood out nude from elevated ground, but above them the branches of the trees covered up so much that Dean couldn't tell what kind of ground it was. And there was the shelter as well - it consisted of a roof made out of small logs, six sturdy posts keeping it up, and from walls up to Dean's chest that offered shelter from wind as well. It opened up towards the tiny waterfall like it was a big sight. The fire basin was in the middle and when they wandered inside to look, the walls all continued into relatively wide benches made from red-painted wood. The floor that surrounded the basin and continued for a foot and a half until cut off by the benches was concrete and appeared to be in good condition, not to mention clean, which meant it was probably used often.  
There was firewood available as well.

"These people live on a goddamn holiday resort," Dean mumbled.  
He wrapped his fingers around a box of large matches and shook it; there were still a few inside.

Castiel chuckled.  
"I doubt you found this on accident. You seemed... determined to come here."

Dean felt an aggressive rush of heat spread on his cheeks. He hadn't yet said anything - he'd forgotten to. When he stood up and looked at Castiel, however, he was certain the older knew just well what he wanted. He had the grin on his face that really couldn't speak for much else.  
Then, before Dean actually managed to say anything - find any words that'd get him some edge over Castiel, anyway - the older turned his gaze down and picked up a block of firewood.

"Should we light a fire? It's pretty chilly in here," he noted, offering the block of wood to Dean, who grabbed it suspiciously as if expecting it to be another jab at his dignity.  
When he could find no invaders from the belly of the gift horse no matter how he turned it around, he finally shrugged and threw the block in the pit.  
"Sounds good to me," he stated.

They set up the basis and Castiel wandered off for a minute to look for small dry sticks from around the place, and when they were done, they lit up the thing. It took two tries to get it to actually burn, but when it did, it did so steadily and its glow lit up the shelter they were in. It was a nice, well-built one, and when Dean seated himself up on the wide bench running across the back wall of the structure he noted it was also quite comfortable, and the view ahead was nice.   
"I repeat," he muttered as Castiel settled so close to him their hips were touching and the feel of this prompted a jolt in the pit of his stomach that seemed to tell his body it was due time to get aroused, "these people live on a freaking resort."

"It feels unreal, I agree."  
  
"Think what we could have made of Chitaqua if we'd been more businessmen and less..."

"Suicidal?" Castiel helped.

Dean grimaced.  
He turned towards him and found him looking right back at him, and the notion made his horizon sway. He brought his hand under the older's jaw, finger sliding along it until it bent at its base and he brought their lips together, feeling like he'd been deprived of this kind of touch for a much too long a while. How long had it been, in truth - a few days at most, he figured, yet the desperation with which he delayed the inevitable separation again was so fundamental it halted his breathing and cut off his thoughts.  
Castiel's hand landed softly over his chest and the angel brought it down his body slowly, applying the warm touch equally to all parts he touched. At the end of it the palm pressed over Dean's groin and bent around his length, just applying pressure until Dean bucked into it with a silent grunt.

"You think this is where people come to have sex here? It's awfully clean... for a rest this far up nowhere in the middle of the apocalypse," the angel spoke against Dean's lips.  
Dean breathed into his mouth and didn't really catch onto what he was saying, his all concentration on the hand over his sex and his own palm that had just slipped down to feel Castiel's erection from underneath his pants.

"Why do you think so damn much?" he muttered and bit the older's lower lip.

Castiel huffed, and for a moment neither spoke as their lips joined again.  
"I don't think much at all," he replied after they'd separed again, "but today, I've been thinking so much I just need something to take that all off my mind."

Dean rubbed his nose against the older's cheek before pulling back, smirking.  
"I know a guy," he spoke.

"I thought you might."

Even with the fire now warming up the night, Dean felt a cold spot wherever Castiel's body wasn't touching his. He sat back and dealt with that minor discomfort just for the while to get his jacket off. It fell behind him almost soundlessly and he stretched it out to pull out the wrapped-up shirt from inside.  
Castiel raised a brow at him as he brought it between them.  
"I didn't pack these for nothing, man. I figured we have time tonight. I was thinking we'd leave at sunrise, but I kind of came to a different conclusion over the pie tonight."

The older let out a laugh as he picked apart the package and found the bottles and the condoms from inside. Dean huffed and pulled one leg up on the bench between them, leaning back over his jacket and tilting his head invitingly with a joking smirk on his face. Castiel watched him, disimpressed but into it nevertheless.

"I thought you had a sense of priorities, Dean," he purred, picking up the shirt again and placing it on the floor next to them, "I stayed for you because I thought you have it _straight_. It appears... that I was wrong... and that you are very, very disorganised - that you are..."  
He pressed his face against Dean's neck and kissed him, nipped at the flesh and then licked it teasingly.  
"... very, very easily..."

Dean brought his hand into Castiel's hair and pushed him down, and Castiel, soon tired of tugging his shirt down to make room for his lips, pulled the bit of clothing off of him.  
When he sat up and watched the younger spread on the bench like that, half-naked and breathing heavy with a visible erection pushing against his jeans, he chuckled and brought a hand through his hair that again looked overgrown and ruffled up from where Dean had touched him.  
  
"... tempted. You look good there like this, fearless leader. Very good."

His gaze ran through Dean's body, taking in the sight as he kept lying there, aching. Then the angel descended over him again and caught his lips in a kiss that lasted for a much too short while for Dean's liking. Castiel stayed above him when the kiss broke and Dean used the moment to take off his shirt as well. When it was off and on the concrete below, he didn't waste any time before going for the tied-up strings that held up his pants - he undid the knot and pushed his fingers between the loosening fabric and the older's hot skin and pushed the waist down his hips until the pants slid over his backside and down his thighs. Castiel let out a small sigh at the feel - it sounded almost relieved to Dean but remained largely undecipherable in its full meaning.  
Their eyes met and they were frozen in time for just that moment before the angel brought his hands on Dean's hips and undid his belt, sitting back for the view and accuracy.

Dean, just waiting for that short moment, bucked up his hips again and spread his legs a little wider just to tease the older, feeling unusually wanted and appreciated there to the point where he was again as confidently playful as he'd once used to be.  
With a hint of a smile, Castiel let one of his hands down from the belt that was now undone and, while turning to the button and the zipper with the one still at work, allowed the free one to press gently between Dean's legs again, sliding it down from there onto his buttocks and from there back over his inner thighs. While he was caressing the other, his right hand had already came down from the open zipper and joined the left one on the thigh he'd just left alone, and he leaned on to kiss at Dean's abdomen at the same time as his hands moved up, came together at the point where the younger's flesh pressed against the thick cloth with such pressure it had to be discomfortable and formed a cup over that area, massaging it as he kept kissing his stomach and trailing along the line drawn by his now open jeans with his tongue.  
The sensations combined left Dean panting - his both hands had charged right back in Castiel's hair and he was rubbing and tugging at the strands, nails sometimes digging at the base of his skull but without enough pressure to pierce the skin. The threat of it was enough, he just wanted to communicate how bad the feel of the male on him made him want more.

This was much more like their first time: Castiel took his time with him and Dean didn't know what else to do but to submit to his rules. The difference was that this time he was curious rather than frustrated; the first try had left him with the deepest sense of satisfaction he'd ever lived through after sex, and he was keen to try if that experience could be replicated. Even more, he wanted to know if now that he was more trusting by default and much less reserved and nervous, could the experience turn even _better_ for him.  
There was a sense of decisiveness behind his excitement over his own enjoyment, however. It had grown in him for a while now, mainly out of the simple fact they hadn't been given much a chance to really take their time with this ever since that night, or if they had, they hadn't known how important it would have been to use that opportunity. The first time, he'd been the subject. Now, more than anything, he wanted Castiel to get an equal share if not more than what he gave Dean, but just how he'd achieve that was still mainly in the dark from the younger, given how Castiel's preferences remained largely unknown to him.


	61. Power & Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some... wait, no, have a ton of porn.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Dean's eyes opened to the dancing shadows on the roof above them. He breathed heavily through his parted lips and felt his back arching, tail bone pressed to the wood underneath. Castiel's hands brought him such intense pleasure by just massaging him like he'd been massaging sore muscles, gently and with pressure, cupping him and palms bending over his shapes like liquid wax, that he was nearing bliss in no time. Whimpering, he brought his hands from the older's hair down on his own hips, grabbed the jeans and started pushing them down. The angel helped him remove them and climbed over him, and at the same time as Dean bent one arm around his back he pushed both of his arms underneath the younger's back and pressed his hips between Dean's legs, face pressing once more against his neck and lips seeking out his ear. Dean held him still for a moment, breath hitching inside his throat and eyes wide open from the warmth and the feel and the sheer impact, which had been soft but surprising, and once he was over that, he begun a rythm on his own accord, pushing his sex against the older's lower abdomen and feeling his in turn sliding against his thigh.  
The sounds he was making were low but constant, and every now and then between them he breathed out the older's name or assured him, quite unnecessarily, that he was feeling good - really good - and that he needed him and wanted him. That wasn't usual for him at all, to let out things such with such ease, but he didn't care and if he'd ever need an excuse, they were by a campfire, and that would excuse every romantic thing he'd end up doing that night, should more follow.

"Dean?" Castiel mumbled into his ear after an eternity had passed with just their bodies rutting together in steady, needy but surprisingly slow rythm, hands moving upon their bodies and eyes seeking contact from much too close before they inevitably ended up kissing.  
Dean responded with an acknowledging, long, pleasured sound and huffed amusedly on top of it, feeling fleetingly stupid again.  
Castiel smiled and pressed his nose against Dean's chest, lips barely touching his chest every now and then as he spoke.  
"Give me one of the bottles." 

Dean reached a hand down and patted around the floor to find the bottles. When his fingertips traced the surface of them through the shirt's fabric he pushed that aside and picked the first to find its way into his hand. Castiel took it from him and leaned over on his elbows to pour some of it on his hands, and once he'd done that, he replaced the cap and put the bottle next to them. The scent was the lighter one and in the open air, it smelled faintly like a pleasant undertone. When Castiel sat up and away from on top of Dean, he left behind a large cold spot that Dean tried to cover up by bringing his own palms over his stomach and resting them there against his skin for warmth.  
The older's hands were strong when he took a firm, if slippery, hold of Dean's thighs and pulled him on his lap again. Dean let out a soft huff at it, his body releasing a wave of adrenaline from the very anticipation of what would come, as even if his mind had nearly forgotten his body clearly remembered the last time it had been moved like that. Castiel held an eye contact to him as he laid his hand on and around Dean's cock for the first time and slid it slowly over his length, spreading the oil on it in the wake of his touch. His other hand moved down to hold the younger's sac, fingers treading carefully about as the other hand returned to slide over his length again. 

"Cas?"  
Speaking was difficult. 

"Yes?"  
The older wrapped his fingers around Dean's hard shaft with a proper grip now, but he jerked it slowly and made a point out of cupping the tip each time he reached it. Dean couldn't not notice how damn well he was moving his fingertips - the main point of how he did this was the movement of his fingers and the minor pressure he applied in just the right places. For a second, Dean wondered how he'd possibly gotten this good without anyone to practice with, and he got so far as to question the whole story again, until in a wave of enlightenment that threatened to make him slap himself he realised that Castiel was perfectly able to touch himself, as an owner of a perfectly functional penis, and had admitted to doing just that. A lot, if Dean recalled correctly.  
He closed his eyes and smirked, low hum escaping his throat and the muscles of his hips rocking smally into the touch at the thought still lingering in his mind. He'd expected to become more frustrated, more needy, but it was as his body knew just fine that he would get what he needed in time and he could therefore just settle to enjoy the trip there, too. With that relaxation, he was finding out things about his own body that he'd never known before, such as that his abs started acting funny very soon into a handjob. They twitched on their own accord, seemingly irrelevantly to whether or not a spot the other touched was particularly sensitive or not, but especially when it was sensitive. When Castiel brought his hand over the tip again, he nearly jumped, and a breathless laughter escaped him.  
He'd entirely forgotten what he had intended to say at this stage. 

"Are you comfortable?" the angel asked him, seemingly worried about the silence that was still hanging between them. 

"Man, I..."  
Another small but unexpectedly loud 'ah' cut off his sentence and he had to swallow before he could form sentences again.  
"I'm more than perfectly comfortable here, Cas."

The silence between the other's name and the next muffled sound of pleasure was less than a second, but it existed. The fact that he still managed to keep words and noise separate gave Dean confidence that he wasn't yet a mess, even though he did feel like he was.  
He wasn't entirely sure how he was. He had no thought to spare for anything but the way the older was treating him and even the rest of his body seemed to have gone partially numb to allow more feeling in the aching, slippery cock the male's hand slid up and down on, fingers sometimes constricting it with his grip tight and firm and sometimes barely sliding over the skin, fingertips pressed against the flesh like small forces of nothing but pleasure.   
His mind, however, had a separate part in it that still lingered on the thoughts from before, and that part had gotten stuck on imagining Castiel alone trying all of this on himself, and the flashes of him like that made Dean's body tense up and his breathing turn uneven as his arousal skyrocketed. He panted with his mouth open, head bent back and hips bucking into Castiel's touch that had once again loosened up on him, eventually falling apart entirely.  
  
He let out a whine and reached a hand out for the older's. Castiel allowed him that and he found his wrist, wrapped his fingers around it and pulled the angel over him for another kiss.  
"You're so, so damn good to me, Cas," he breathed roughly.  
He felt the other smile and that realisation together with everything he was already feeling made his core flood with intense love for the male, such that broke out in desperate touches and a raw kiss, his nails dragging down the other's sides as if looking for a way to tear off the skin so that they could be joined in something more than flesh only.  
"Let me be good to you too, okay? Tell me what you like. Anything you like, anything you'd want. Anything. I don't know how to - how to touch you, and I don't know how to find out - so please - please help me." 

For a moment, he sensed the older was lost. His pose turned less relaxed and his breathing more strained, but Dean never stopped caressing him and eventually his muscles lost the extra tension and he returned to normal.  
"Can I ask you to show me what you like about me?" Castiel asked after hesitating for a moment.  
His voice was shy like he wasn't certain if this was a response he was allowed to give. 

Dean's hands stopped over his sides and they looked at one another for a while, both smiling if still in two different tones; Castiel's smile was almost apologetic while Dean's expressed more the unusual burst of affection he was still feeling inside.  
"Take my place," Dean spoke after thinking for a moment how to respond to the older's request.  
"On your back over the jacket." 

When Castiel was off of him, he slid down from the bench and crossed the shelter to get new wood for the fire. He pushed them in the flames while the angel lay down on the bench, and when he got up again, his legs were trembling and weak. The concrete felt warm under his feet when he crossed the floor up to Castiel again and small particles fell all over when he brought his feet off the ground and settled to sit with knees on both side's of Castiel's body, the other so uncomfortably at the edge of the bench that he allowed the foot on that side to return back on the floor. His position was far from comfortable but considering the state of his arousal, he doubted  _any_  position was comfortable for him at all, so this just had to do.  
  
They both froze on spot when a branch broke deeper in the forest, way out of their line of sight; however, nothing followed suit, and they both knew that the weight that had snapped it in half had been much too light to be of any danger to them. It had not been a heavy sound.  
Recovering, Dean leaned over his angel and kissed him - Castiel didn't hesitate returning it. His palms appeared over Dean's waist again and he held him lightly, barely more than touching him. The younger's lips travelled from the bottom one's mouth to his ear instead, took it between them and let his tongue do the work. He felt the older tensing up before a small sound broke out from between his lips and he shifted anxiously underneath Dean's body. Dean painted the curve of his ear with saliva before retreating lower, all the way down on his neck where he'd already done a quite throughout job earlier; he didn't stay long, rather moving onto the pit between Castiel's collarbones, a spot he'd always loved in the human body and that wasn't by far unique to Castiel alone. He briefly returned up from there, onto his Adam's apple that protruded just enough to be visible - it was hard underneath his lips and he drew a circle around it with his tongue before kissing up from there along the neck until his mouth touched the male's chin.  
His facial hair had grown to something of a beard by now, and Dean's wasn't any better; they hadn't exactly had the motivation to shave. The feel of that against his lips in a position like this made Dean swallow hard and shiver. Unable to hold himself back, he grinded his hips longingly against the older's, making them both moan needily at the touch. Castiel's hand slid on his lower back and held him on place as he raised his hips against Dean's body and again, Dean swallowed thickly, overwhelmed by the feel of him and the knowledge that he was just as needy as he was, just as  _into_ this as he was, and that Dean was the one that made him this way. It was a beautiful, warm feeling, but it also excited him as if he hadn't had enough of that already. In the back of his mind he knew he was exhausted and tired and ready to just fall asleep but he could feel none of that in him now: he was as wide awake as he'd ever been with no needs that could possibly overrun the need for Castiel. 

The moment passed and the older got himself under control again, forcing his hips back down against the wood underneath. Dean heard and felt him swallow - his Adam's apple moved against Dean's forehead that rested against his neck. A small combination of a huff and a chuckle escaped Dean as he picked himself up from the spot and returned to his task that he hadn't quite yet completed.  
Now he moved down: he explored the other's chest first with his palms and fingers, feeling the muscle underneath the soft skin and, unwillingly, comparing that feel to the feel of a female. He was much more comfortable with this now than he'd been before and the fear and shame had transformed into something he enjoyed throughoutly. He did own a male body himself, but it was exactly that similarity that intrigued him here, and still the tiniest hint of the allure of the forbidden lingered underneath - he couldn't deny himself the enjoyment of it, it was too good to feel bad about.  
His fingers slid down from Castiel's chest, the ring fingers on both sides slipping over the hard buds of his nipples, and from there down over his sides and up over his abdomen. Even there Dean could feel the shape of muscle underneath, and he traced them until the feel was compromised by that of the hair growing as a fine trail in the middle. He brushed through that and down, leaning over to kiss and suck the older's nipple as his fingers found and slid along the hard length of his erection. He pressed down with his body, trapping both his hand and the male's sex between just to feel how it felt like. Beneath him, Castiel's whole body was trembling with tension and he wasn't even breathing, the last inhale of his having been cut short with a sharp gasp. All the fine hair over Dean's neck was standing up, and the same went for all that grew over his arms - shivers crossed him like waves, and it felt like each of those small, excited tremors caused Castiel further shock. Finally, he could let the air out again, his exhale wavering and weak.  
  
Dean chuckled over his chest and lifted his body just enough to easen the pressure, fingers now tightly wrapped around the male's sex and eyes upon his.  
"You remember when I said you come like a virgin?" 

"I'm not sure my mind functions properly."  
Castiel swallowed and shook his head as if to shake off some of the mist that was blocking his ability to think.  
"I recall it, yes," he said then with a broken voice and a hoarse, gasping breath. 

"I don't have a clue how I missed it all, because damn, Cas, you're so obviously new to this."

Castiel swallowed again, a shadow of a grin climbing over his features.  
"You had a preconception you strictly believed to be correct... Those are hard to shake, and I'm glad you didn't even try." 

Dean's fist moved down and then up again along the older's length as he tried to figure out what to reply to his words - his thought process was slow and difficult through all the physical sensation growing thick around it.  
"Why do you find it such a non-issue? I was pretty damn disappointed you didn't tell me." 

Castiel shook his head again, this time clearly as a sign of disagreement.  
"It is a non-issue. Was. Is. I don't know. I just want you in me, Dean." 

The younger laughed and the rythm with which he was massaging Castiel turned faster as his concentration tuned elsewhere. He liked the way the other felt in his grip and somehow like this he was closer to him as well in a way that skin-to-skin contact without it had felt. His face felt hot from both the glow of fire as well as the blood rushing through, freshly renewed by the angel's words. Those had had a definite effect on him, one he was still trying to work through, but his body was tingly from anticipation alone. His hands slid from the older's sex and turned to the shape of his hips instead - his fingers followed the bone and the curve of flesh back to his crotch and from there on onto his thighs. His fingers bent underneath them to reposition them as he pulled up his own aching leg that he'd kept awkwardly tensed up for balance on the floor and laid it between Castiel's. Leaning over, he brought his other leg there as well so that he was in the same pose that Castiel had previously been between his - their eyes met and he grinned a little before reaching down for the bottle. He didn't need Castiel's help getting there, he had no problem bending over; for the angel, the wound was probably the reason he hadn't wanted to double over to pick anything up from the floor.  
He chose the other bottle, for one because it wasn't yet slippery, but also because since they seemed to have settled on the other being used for foreplay, it just seemed to follow logically that this one would be used for penetration. 

"You want me in you, huh?" he muttered, watching carefully the expression on the other's face.

Castiel smiled, closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his head against the bench beneath him.  
"Yeah. Bad, Dean. It's more of a need, really, you could say." 

Dean could have sworn his cheeks were burning red. Not for the first time that night, he was happy for the glow of the fire that once again concealed this fact. He was still smiling and, although he wasn't aware of it, shaking his head a little.  
"Man. This has to be one of the strangest things I've done," he chuckled, pouring oil over his hand and finding difficulty closing the bottle.  
When he'd failed enough for the oil to drip from his hand on Castiel's stomach the older took it from him and closed it with no effort whatsoever. He didn't put it on the floor but between himself and the wall, smirking. 

"You haven't been doing many strange things, then," he spoke, lifting his hips and raising a leg to offer his body up for Dean.

The younger slid a finger down his body and realised, in a strange and most unwelcome flash of awareness, that Castiel was much too clean for someone who'd lived the same life he had for the past days. This wasn't him bathing daily, this was him remaining clean; there wasn't a single shade of excess oil in his hair and for the whole time Dean had been all over him, he'd not once smelled anything but freshness on him. That was almost scary, and it halted his hand over the male so that more oil dripped on the skin his subconscious had just declared suspicious.  
He didn't know what to say about it - it felt too awkward to go asking for the lack of body odor on him, especially in this damn position.  
A conflicted laughter brushed past his defenses.   
"You're a freak, Cas."

"You've told me before. I don't care. Could you just please relieve me already? I'm not exactly patient anymore. I thought you weren't into sexual torture." 

With another laughter - this one more of an impatient snort - Dean leaned over the older and kissed him, hand closing the distance between them to let a finger slide inside him. A small, quiet sound escaped Castiel and Dean felt the male moving towards his touch, taking another inch of his finger inside as he did so. Oil gathered along the second knuckle of Dean's finger as he pushed it deeper.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he grunted, cheek against Castiel's. 

"You're doing good."

He moved the finger a short distance back and then in again a few times before pushing it past the second knuckle and a bit forwards from there. Then he pulled it out to the first knuckle and in again, and after that he pressed the second finger's tip against the ring of flesh to try if he could slip that in, too. He was biting his lip and only when he'd pinched off a piece of dried skin from it as the second finger entered the older male's body did he ever realise he was doing it. He licked at the chap and tasted blood - swallowing thickly, he released the lip again and found himself breathing heavily directly into Castiel's ear.  
The older's ability to relax into the touch made him the slightest bit jealous; he didn't remember it having been this easy before, but now the older's muscles resisted so little he had no trouble adding the third finger in only just after a minute of playing around with two. The introduction made Castiel whimper, but Dean wasn't certain if it was from pleasure or discomfort - be it either, he slowed down to give him the chance to adjust. 

"Did I establish my point earlier?" he asked, pulling back to a sitting position with his fingers still inside the other's body.  
Castiel followed him up, balancing his upper body on his elbows and keeping the rest relaxed.  
"Did I show you well enough what I like about you?" 

Seeing the older blush made Dean feel so much better about doing it all the time himself. Castiel looked away and into the fire, nodding.  
"It felt very throughout," he mumbled breathlessly, hips bucking into the touch again. 

Dean didn't feel like making the sappy remark about how he kinda liked him in a throughout manner, so he just huffed and wished he could get away with punching something to get rid of the ugly, fluffy feeling he was now stuck with. Instead, he coughed and grimaced, glancing at Castiel like he'd said something very obvious - in a manner, blaming him for being stupid when he wasn't did make him feel a little better about himself.  
The older was used to it. He raised a brow unimpressedly at Dean before dropping back in a lying position, but at the same time, he spread his legs some more and pushed back with his hips into the touch, efficiently wiping clean the thoughts from the younger's mind. 

"I thought you were the master of patience, Cas."

"I used to be. That was before you came along."

Dean grinned. One by one he allowed his fingers to slide out of the older, leaving them both covered in oil and smelling strongly of jasmine, but the latter was soon done away with by a breeze of wind that blew the scent away and replaced it with a more toned-down mixture of the oil, fresh air and smoke.  
He reached for the bottle Castiel had left by their side and wrestled it open, poured more into his cupped palm and gave it to the angel for him to close it. He did so and returned the bottle on the floor, apparently deciding that they were now settled on oil for all they were up to. 

"You used to be the grandmaster of patience even with me, you know," Dean noted to distract himself from his own hand descending over his hard length to rub the cool oil onto it.  
There was enough for drops of it to run down his body and lube up his upper thighs, too, and the feel of that was slightly discomfortable, although Dean couldn't exactly pinpoint the reason why. 

Castiel let out an impatient sound, then grinned and chuckled.  
"Not tonight," he mumbled, much too aroused to pay much attention to his words, "Not since you've started paying attention to me. Not since you've taught me to enjoy myself." 

"Have I?" Dean asked, and he was genuinely surprised by this. 

"I highly enjoy the manner your touches feel when you actually want to touch me, Dean," the older spoke, opening his eyes to trace the logs above just like Dean remembered doing before, "It does make me impatient, but in a very good way." 

"Yeah, well, feel my pain. The first time wasn't far from torture." 

Castiel laughed.  
"You enjoyed it, didn't you." 

Dean grinned.  
He adjusted the older's hips against his and breathed in and out to calm down - he didn't want to be the guy who came early, he'd had enough of that as a teen.

"I loved it," he breathed out as he started leaning in.  
He brought a hand over next to Castiel's arm and leaned a portion of his weight onto that for balance as he entered the older, breathing halted for a moment's time as he concentrated on control over his hips. When he was half there, he turned his gaze over to Castiel and his chest leaked with affection at the sheer enjoyment over his features - he looked blissful, relaxed and so throughoutly into it that Dean couldn't help feeling achieved over it, even though he'd done next to nothing so far.  
Their bodies became entwined in more than one sense as he moved; Castiel brought his arms around him and he found his own free hand from the older's shoulders, the other still balancing him to the pose and giving them both the stability they needed as their bodies adjusted. On top of that, they'd resumed kissing: it happened naturally with their faces so close to one another as Dean's body settled above Castiel's. He knew his mouth and the skin around it would be dry and sore from this tomorrow but not a single part of his mind could find it in him to care, the thought merely hanging on inside him as a foreboding of sorts.  
He'd already once come to the conclusion that they were running short on time no matter how this all would end; they'd wasted the previous opportunity to sleep together by choosing the literal alternative of it. Tonight could well be the last time they had: tomorrow they'd be in Kansas, and there was no telling if they'd make it out alive. There was no way in hell they'd have a chance to make love on that side of the border. They wouldn't even have the time. Dean had been on missions before, he knew how they went: you get in, you do the job. You do the job even if it takes you four days without sleep and then you get the hell out - if you can get the hell out at all.   
Shivering, he held onto Castiel tighter and moved his hips into him, relaxing to slide back again. Castiel let out a small sound and his nose pressed against Dean's cheekbone. He raised his hips to rock against Dean's, and Dean responded in kind, and the rythm they chose was slow and gentle, not at all what he'd expected from the amount of energy they had packed in during the past hour or so that they'd spent teasing each other and trailing about the edges of what each could take and still not cross the point of no return.

Dean had almost forgotten how easily the oil made sounds: each movement, no matter how small, seemed to be worth a slap or just a dragged, slippery and lewd sound effect. It made him smile into the kiss, especially when he found out that if he moved a little faster, that seemed to  _lessen_  the amount of noise produced in the process, not add to it. Of course, that would only last up to a certain speed - after that, it would be the fault of the flesh, not so much the oil, that would cause the sounds.  
Castiel's fingers had reached up in his hair and they were still kissing. The angel held him there, dictating the manner in which their lips joined while Dean was the one in control of his pleasure. He didn't even attempt to touch himself, and Dean wondered fleetingly if it even occurred to him. The thought stuck to him and after a while he took a hold of Castiel's hand and brought it to the male's sex, wrapped his fingers around it with the guidance of his own and showed him a rythm with which he wanted him to touch himself. His heart was fluttering and the kiss broke - Castiel's back arched so far up that his belly pressed into Dean's, and he let out a muffled, long sound that wasn't quite a moan but more of a vocal sigh: describing what exactly was the difference would have been impossible. Once his back hit the bench again he was panting and his cheeks were flustered and his body trembled. Dean let out a wavering breath and thrust into him again, this time a little harder than before, and the older let out a yelp at it, arching up again and whimpering. The top had no idea  _what_  he was doing right but he clearly was doing it  _right_ , and the permission for Castiel to help himself had done nothing if not multiplied the pleasure for him. Encouraged by all of that, Dean allowed himself to move faster and deeper, too; his vision blurred and he closed his eyes to allow more room for sensation, and his whole body seemed to burn with the feel of Castiel around and underneath him. His hand moved under the older's back and he pulled him up - after a moment of awkward shifting he held the man on his lap with the other's knees on his both sides. Getting him in that position had been hard and had caused both of them to lose the edge over pleasure but it felt nice to have him there.  
Eyes open again he watched Castiel's hand return between them and take a hold of his cock, the manner in which it did so clearly showing how much he'd ached when the contact had been lost. A clear drop had gathered at the tip and Dean watched it fall down and run lazily along the male's shaft. It was soon caught under Castiel's palm and spread over the skin of both his sex and his hand. The sight made Dean exhale in a held-back, strained manner and he had to look up and away to stop the domino effect leading right up to an instant orgasm. A breathless laughter escaped him as he felt the pressure easen again and right then he felt Castiel's lips on his neck once more, slipping clumsily along his jaw and down onto his shoulder, teeth dragging a scratch into his skin from sheer lack of patience to care.  
In that position, the control over their rythm had transitioned to Castiel, and Dean realised with a moan and a grin that his impatience had not toned down the slightest bit. He didn't even hold back until he'd adjusted in a proper position, instead biting into Dean's flesh each and every time his movements caused him discomfort or pain, but kept riding him like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His nails buried themselves into Dean's shoulders and raked him raw only to switch over to his upper back and claw that open, too. The sounds he made had turned into a non-stop needy purring, a low, growling sound that stemmed from both pleasure and frustration that was growing in him. Everything about him amused Dean as much as it kept arousing him - he waited for the older to find the pace he wanted and get into it before gripping his hips and forcing him to slow down again. He'd done it to Dean; Dean had no intentions whatsoever to let him off any easier now that he had the power  _and_  the patience for this.

The glare the angel aimed at him was pure fire, passionate and angry at him for daring to hold him back, but Dean simply raised his chin and squinted at him in challenge, and the glare faded from him fast. Instead, Castiel leaned closer over him - in this position, taller than him - and brought their noses together, just the tips this time, and the way he looked at him was threatening at best and terrifying at worst. He slowed down to almost no movement at all and it was clear from everything in him that he'd taken the challenge and he'd taken it seriously; Dean swallowed and let his lips part to allow out a small gasp at the sheer anticipation of what he'd just accidentally started.  
  
The clawing stopped at the very least. In the sudden lack of movement in either of them Dean felt something running down his back and he couldn't tell if it was sweat or if it was blood, as it could have just as well be either. His eyes were fixed on Castiel's lips and the way he kept licking at them as he concentrated was hypnotic.  
The angel's body lifted and then fell back down again, but the movement was torturously slow, so slow that he could feel every damn ripple in the older's flesh as it adjusted over his throbbing length. And damn, he was throbbing, he felt that too, and the older male's pulse on the muscles that held onto him. The whole thing was a pain for him but he couldn't stop grinning.  
His hand ran up the angel's spine and onto his neck where it stayed to caress him gently, and he finally lifted his gaze back up into Castiel's eyes. The older was in his warrior mode, eyes squinted and nostrils flaring as he held himself back from doing what he truly wanted to do, and sweat ran down his face and fell down from the curve of his jaw. Dean felt that drop landing on his skin.  
He leaned to kiss the other but got no response - Castiel's hands had slid onto his slick waist and were resting there, occasionally supporting a portion of his weight as he raised himself up again.  
  
Dean swallowed thickly at the feel of the tip of his cock sliding out of the older's body entirely. Fumbling, not sure what to do about the situation, he brought his hand over, not to reposition himself but to slide fingers inside his angel instead. Castiel bent his head back and let out a wavering moan, muscles contracting around the younger's fingers as he thrust them in and out. A particular angle with Dean's fingertips rubbing against his flesh, bending it just the slightest bit, seemed to get the most out of him so he improvised based on that, moaning along with the male on his lap even though he was receiving no pleasure from the deed whatsoever aside the occasional shiver that ran through him and seemed to reach up to his groin as well.   
He wasn't entirely sure what was going on, but he did have a goal, and he was set to win. No matter what the game was, no matter the rules, he would come out on top and nothing would stop him. The only problem was that he was at a disadvantage the longer he stayed in the dark, so just for the sake of it despite already having a good idea of just how useless the attempt would be, he brought his other hand over to his achingly hard cock and, with a nearly inaudible gasp, pressed the tip against Castiel's body again. As he'd expected, the other shifted away at contact.

He pressed his forehead against the older's neck and breathed, grimacing. Then, without bothering to warn him, he let his fingers out of the male's body and brought the other hand in his hair instead, pulling back so hard he let out a sound from sheer pain. Dean could feel how his body tensed up at the unexpected turn of events and using that as his cue he regained control over his own body, pulling up from his position and landing Castiel on his back. The male struggled, and Dean could feel bruises forming over his shoulders as the older's fingers and fists pressed into his flesh, but he didn't care - his own hands were now over Castiel's shoulders and he held him down, knee digging into his thigh as he kept it from pressing together with the other. As he forced that leg up, Castiel's hand charged up in his hair and he pulled at the short strands so hard they threatened to tear out completely, and Dean had to take a moment to struggle out of the grasp before they really would. With a light kick he pushed the angel's leg over his stomach and swallowed thickly at the sound of pain that once again left the older's lips. He leaned over the male, body sliding along his and he bit him on the lip, causing him to jump - his other leg, the one that wasn't recovering from near dislocation, pressed tight against Dean's body in an attempt to push him away as the younger released a hand to move between them. His heart was beating fast and the points where the angel's hands had bruised him where throbbing and swelling and his eyes watered from when the older had pulled his hair, but none of that slowed him down; he was more than used to pain and functioning despite it.  
  
There was a moment of stillness between them when his sex pressed against the older's body again, and in that stillness, he heard nothing but the sigh the other male let out. Castiel's body relaxed - the leg that had been pressing against Dean's side lifted and slid over onto his lower back for support, and the hand that had remained in his hair loosened its grip again and the fingers turned to caressing him instead of tearing him apart. Dean thrust inside gently; the violence of the past moment was gone as fast as it had begun, and as they looked into one another's eyes, there was nothing but trust between them.  
Dean didn't hold back the soft and quiet, relieved chuckle as he joined their lips again, confident that he'd this time get Castiel to join in, too. He wasn't disappointed - the other, despite his sore, swelling lip, joined in as he'd done throughout to that point.  
Their hips rocked against one another seamlessly and in a common rythm that wasn't necessarily decided by either of them. The fire still burning in its pit beside them, despite still being alight, was breaking down to ash and glowing, blackened bits of wood, leaving them little by little to depend on each other for warmth in the cold of the dying night.  
Neither felt cold yet and would not for a while, not with the warmth that radiated from the ashes, but the thought of it lingered as did the mutual understanding that they were out of time.   
  
Despite the more calm, unhurried manner in which they moved, there was no question about one thing; they were both extremely turned on still, and the explosion moments ago had not made it any easier for them. For Dean, it still lingered in his muscles as hidden aggression and within his veins as a pressure just waiting for the right moment to flow free; he couldn't shake the feeling of power that still remained strong in him or the adrenaline that pumped through him and mixed so well together with his arousal. Of course he knew that all of the former was the exact reason Castiel had given him this: he'd allowed him to take back his sense of power and control, something he'd lacked for a long time. The truth that it had all been just play didn't matter - the fact remained it had worked, and having been shown that Dean still had the strength to get what he wanted but also the strength to not just  _take_  it gave him a unique sense of comfort that couldn't quite be matched. He was still a man, a human, behind it all; a person capable of true connection, compassion, and giving.  
For Castiel, of course Dean couldn't be sure, but he seemed more than just alright with being held down and forced - how much of it had been act and how much real remained a mystery, but Dean knew the older well enough to know there had been a balance of both. His wound weakened him, and if it would truly come down to it, he wasn't sure which would end up winning. Castiel had a millenia of training behind him, and Dean had rarely seen him take a beating. But wounded, he had to hold back, and that made him question just how much exactly he had been holding back just now. Truth remained, however, that he was definitely turned on by his having his control taken away from him in that way, and the results were clear. His body trembled with the same adrenaline that pumped through Dean's veins, too, but the rest of the signs were unique to him. He couldn't stop moving - his body jumped to the right touches, his back was never relaxed and always arched, only the amount of space put between his skin and the wood below was what changed. His hair stood up and he kissed Dean like he was the only water in a world of deserts. His voice was breaking and he couldn't stop using it, hardly ever falling quiet anymore at all, and whenever he looked at Dean, there was depth behind his eyes that seemed so vast that nothing could fill it, and that the only thing he needed was for Dean to do just that.

It wasn't the kind of arousal and excitement Dean was used to seeing.  
It was hunger, need that was much more profound than just physical demand for release - it came from much deeper and it longed for something he didn't know exactly how he could give.  
But he tried; he found all new ways of moving as his body adjusted according to the signs he could read on the male, and all this time, his own pleasure was secondary. He didn't care for his aching back or his strained muscles when he found an angle that made Castiel cry out loud, his voice shattering before he was done with the sound he'd let out. He continued despite this for a while, and Dean felt a shiver run through his spine as he listened to the hoarse, crackling whisper.  
He could hardly believe he'd turned the angel into this, brought him so far that he was completely giving in to the feel. He'd never seen anyone trust him like that, never gotten anyone to a point where they were one and it almost felt like their minds were connected, too. Dean didn't need any words, he didn't have to stop and read the signs, he just  _knew_  when he did right and when he was getting astray again.  
He closed his eyes and thrust in, holding his breath. The angel's fingers bent into his flesh and for a moment, he was silent, body arching up until Dean brought his arms underneath to hold him closer, and he could feel the way the other's body exploded with pleasure, all of it releasing at once inside.  
Between them, even though they were both covered in sweat and oil, Dean felt the warmth of his release wetting everything with just another layer of the same old. 

He breathed out, shivering again.

Then the older's muscles clenched around him and that together with everything he'd just gone through was enough to break him, too. His hold around Castiel's relaxing body was like holding onto the safety bar of the rollercoaster as he charged right through, breathless, not sure what his body was doing around him as it all came over him at once, and this time with no wine taking up his consciousness, he held onto that with all he was just like he was holding onto the male whose hands were now on him again, moving him, bringing him against him.  
Panting, trembling like crazy and unable to think, Dean opened his eyes to look into the angel's, and for the moment, the world was alright. Everything settled in its rightful place.  
Their bodies parted - Dean had climbed into an awkward pose over the older's slowly sinking arch and now that the blood charged back into places its presence was more pressingly required, the slick flow of his cum released into the older's body along with the oil evacuated him right the hell out.  
He let out a worn sigh and his knee landed on the bench with a heavy thud. Castiel's thighs trembled and when he let down his left arm, it fell like a bit of lead to his side.  
Dean rested his head on the older's chest and they both just breathed, breathed, breathed, much too exhausted to even say a word.  
Sleep washed over Dean like a landslide, and just like a landslide, the feeling was anything but gentle and comfortable. He struggled against it and the weight of his lids when he tried to wrestle his eyes open. He managed, always for just a second before he lost to the weight again, and each and every time his eyes closed, he was already dreaming. His conscious mind conflicted with the waking dreams and he fought himself into a sitting position despite his whole body screaming for rest.

"C'mon, Cas, we need to go back," he mumbled, hand sliding across the angel's stomach.  
He didn't even realise he was doing that for the longest while - it happened, he felt it, but he could as well have been dreaming it. When he noticed, he didn't stop.  
  
The other let out a long, heavy sigh. His hand found Dean's and their fingers entwined with just the exception of Dean's thumb, which despite the touch still kept caressing the older's skin.  
He shivered and this time it was with cold.  
He felt dirty.

"God," he muttered, pulling himself up - he nearly fell right back down, as his legs were more than just unwilling to support his weigh.  
His muscles trembled like mad as he took a step and his balance failed, leading him to fall to his left, a motion he managed to correct by landing his feet in that direction. Castiel laughed, but his laughter was muffled and tired just like everything Dean was doing. 

"Shut up," the younger grimaced, "You try walking. I bet you'll do worse than me."  
He huffed as he took another step and found it a little easier to manage than the previous, although he did realise that he'd need to pay very close attention to his knees so as to not make them fail under him.  
"You were spread pretty wide there just now, you know." 

"And you liked me that way."

"Yeah," Dean agreed.  
He leaned to the post at the entrance to the shelter and grinned.  
"I'm going to go wash myself. It's going to be a ton of fun. Wanna join me or what?" 

Castiel huffed.  
"I'll join you," he said then with a crooked grin on his face, "and it's going to be a ton of fun."


	62. Just Shut Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the two fuckers here need to seriously stop being horribly sappy and disgusting. I mean, anytime now, we're waiting.
> 
> Sorry for being the least reliable poster recently, a hell of a lot is going on and I'm kind of lost in the chaos.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

There was a rusty bucket resting next to the shelter, most likely for the purpose of putting out the fire quickly. Dean picked that up and crossed the distance between the shelter and the creek with Castiel near behind him. He was glad to know that his guess had been right; the shorter had worse trouble keeping himself stable than Dean was having, although he suffered silently and seemed like the whole situation wounded his dignity greatly.  
When the younger stepped in, he noted the water was much warmer than he'd initially expected - the past days had been warm and perhaps that had an impact, or perhaps he was just more used to cold than he'd previously thought. The depth never grew higher than half up his calves, but that was alright. With Castiel by his side he kneeled down in the water and started washing off the stains and the oil and the sweat. It was refreshing and uncomfortable at the same time, but with every handful of water Dean rinsed himself with and with every bucket he threw over himself, he was that much less ready to fall asleep on his feet.  
The water flowed fast enough for them to avoid picking up much of the sand and dirt that they were raising from the bottom as long as they both just reached far enough in front of them. Even despite that, Dean could feel and hear sand in his hair, and when he closed his mouth, there was some between his teeth too from where he'd licked his lips unknowingly.

"I'm certain we would have found a shower, too, if we'd just tried hard enough," Castiel noted, pouring water from the bucket he'd just grabbed from Dean all over himself.  
He turned an amused gaze towards the taller and winked.

Dean huffed, nodded and continued rubbing at his skin to get the feel of filth off it.  
"I know," he stated, "I even have an idea where it was. But I'm not going back covered in cum and sweat, and I sure as hell won't let you walk in like that either."

"Which reminds me," the older chuckled, dipping his hair in the flow and scrubbing through it, "of the curious detail that you brought condoms but didn't even think of using them."

Dean smiled crookedly. His feet were growing numb underwater.  
"It was hot, though," he said.

"What exactly is hot about skipping protection?"

"You," Dean shrugged, "It's not like you're going to get pregnant. And, hell, it's not like you'll give me HIV either."

"Oh, aren't you selfish. I'm more worried about myself catching something from  _you_."

"Oh, shut the hell up, will you? I'm clean. We're in a relationship. We didn't use a condom last time either. Just - just shut up."

Castiel laughed.  
"You're an ass," he noted and pulled up, "and I guess you'll never change."

"Yeah, whatever. Dick."

The angel hovered about, seemingly indecisive about whether or not he wanted to go yet. Dean kept cleaning and wasn't going to budge, and eventually Castiel landed back in the water as well. He sat on his knees and brought his hands underwater, face turned towards the surface of the flow and the faintest glow of the dying fire behind them reflecting upon his back.  
Dean halted, watching him; he was beautiful. His back, just like Dean's as far as he knew, was full of long, red scratches, some of which looked irritated and swollen. The taller had no recollection of ever putting them there but it only meant Castiel had had a point in saying he truly was trying his best to skin him in bed.  
Or on the bench.  
Wherever.

"Something you said caught my attention," the angel spoke finally.  
He grabbed the bucket from where he'd placed it - it was full of water so as to not float away or get knocked over. He moved behind Dean and poured some of that into his hair and over his back, one palm descending to wash the area the younger couldn't reach up to on his own.  
The attention felt so good Dean wanted to just lean back into it, but he was frozen solid to the touch and merely trembled in response to it.  
  
"Yeah?" he managed to push out of his throat, landing one hand under the flow so that he was assuming a lazy imitation of a three-point landing.

Castiel hummed a short, thoughtful response.  
"Yes," he continued then, "You said we are in a relationship. I assume it was a slip, but I'd like you to confirm, either way. It's not a small deal. It means - quite a bit."

"It doesn't," Dean responded instinctively.  
He breathed in and bent his head back, unable to stay still anymore as the angel laid down the bucket and turned to washing him with both hands.

"Yes. It does. You can take it back if it wasn't what you meant, I will not be offended."

 _Shit._  
Dean swallowed and fought back another instinctive response. The cold water had done a great job at clarifying his thoughts but this? This was something he hadn't expected to be debating tonight, and yet the word had come out so easily he had never even noticed.  
He turned his gaze down and soon felt Castiel's palm sliding up his neck, water running down from it and charging down his shoulders. Strainedly, he shifted and swallowed and nodded.

"No, Cas, you're right. I said it. I guess I meant it. I guess I need to do better than guess, too. So, uh, okay. Yeah. We're in a relationship."  
He shifted again and grabbed a fistful of the creek's bottom. Dirt gathered underneath his fingernails and he shivered again as he let the soil out of his grasp. It scattered into the water and an owl hooted nearby, soon after taking wing and disappearing into the night. The sky was sluggishly beginning to light up above them.

"Well, I'm glad."

Castiel's fingers slid on Dean's shoulder as he stood up. It lasted just for a moment before he couldn't reach that low anymore, but now he was offering his hand to Dean to pull him up. Dean accepted the offer, grabbing the bucket in his free hand - there was still some water on the bottom, and he guessed he could use that to put out the fire.  
When they stood side by side, he looked Castiel in the eye and felt like he should say something, but he couldn't find any words. Instead, he brought his hand over the male's neck and pulled him into a gentle kiss, their cold wet bodies pressing together. Castiel's hands rested over his waist for the duration of the kiss and when it broke, neither said a word as they turned back towards the fire.  
They dressed up in silence and left on the track back towards the house barefooted.

 

*

 

The bulky blond guy was standing by the door when the two of them finally emerged from the forest. Dean was much too aware of the throbbing, swollen and painful bruises and teeth marks on his neck and wished the guy would just go anywhere from the door, but of course he didn't. Instead, his keen eyes picked them out from the backgroud as soon as the flashlight's beam hit the ground past the thick of the trees.  
Dean's cheeks burned as he tried to decide how to act about it - in the end he raised the collars of his jacket in an attempt to cover up the worst of the damage, fixed his posture and tried to appear as if he just wanted to go to bed and that he didn't give a crap about anything beyond that goal.  
Behind him, Castiel let out a sigh that Dean for some reason firmly believed to be related to the adjustments he'd just made.  
  
There were now two lit lanterns set by the beginning of the ramp that lead up to the second floor door. Castiel turned off the lamp as they approached them and Dean laid his bare feet on the wood first. He gripped his pair of shoes in his hand a little too tightly, but other than that, he'd assumed the perfect poker face and posture to match it.

"Evening, gentlemen," Hulk greeted them with a smirk, "Had a refreshing - swim? Bath?"

Dean raised a brow and slowed down to drop his shoes on the porch where the rest of the shoes had lined up; he hadn't seen them there before but it wasn't much of a wonder, given that he hadn't really been looking.  
When he straightened up again, he managed a grin.  
"You could say that."

"Cold this time of the year. Any time of the year, actually, but I don't think you had that issue."

Castiel reached the porch as well. Unlike Dean, he was eager to take eye contact to the man and let out a relaxed laugh at his words. The man grinned and turned his eyes back towards the woods as if waiting for more people to appear from its depths.  
The door was locked.

"Tell me you have a key to this thing," Dean muttered.

"Nah," the man spoke with a shrug, "Afraid ya'll are stuck here just like me."

"How long?"

"Long 'nuf."

"Great."  
Dean returned to the end of the ramp and dropped down to sit on it, huffing. Castiel settled half a feet from him against the low barrier at the side, leaning his shoulder to the post next to the guy still standing behind him.  
Hulk was leaning his elbows to the railing and looked like he'd been there for quite a while. He was humming Metallica, each note pushing out through his nostrils as white vapor.  
Dean leaned his elbows onto his knees and left the rest of the arms hanging loose in front of him, eyes now scanning the edge of the forest just like the other man was. Castiel, on the other hand, had leaned his head to the post as well and closed his eyes, breathing in and out relaxedly but not relaxedly enough to be asleep, which Dean wouldn't have put past his zen in this day and age at all.

"Where you from?" the guy asked after a moment of silence.

"Here and there," Dean replied, shrugging.

"Raised to the lifestyle I bet."

"Nnh."

"Me too, man. Father and a sis with me. Kinda like a family business, okay, until they got gutted on a hunt a few years before shit hit the fan."

Dean noticed he was biting at his lip again and tried to stop. Since the guy seemed chatty, he figured he could respond in kind; that had been the polite thing to do when politeness itself had been a thing to do.  
"I had my dad and my brother for years. Dad's dead. Sam went to college. After that it's been a rough trip."

"Whoa. Sam's the dude in there?"

"Yup, that one."

"Seemed like a smart kid."  
The man shifted and leaned down, stretching his arms and neck. When he got up, he was covering a large yawn.  
"Damn," he mumbled then, "I called her fifteen damn minutes ago and you guys are the only thing that's hit the view so far. Usually takes her two to jog back up, was expecting her in seven now but nothing."

"Candice?"

"Yup. She has her own entrances and kinda like a master bedroom that I've never seen, for the record, but she likes to keep her privacy. So yeah if you get locked out and lemme just tell you that the guard  _always_  gets locked out, you call her and she gets you back in. I don't know what the hell's keeping her - she said she'd grab some water from the well first and the well's in that direction. I said okay. Takes her no damn time at all, and now she got eaten by a wolf or something."

Instinctively, Dean looked up at the sky. It wasn't full moon yet.  
He was pretty sure a wolf hadn't eaten her. Still, his hand had slipped to fondle the gun resting against his thigh and he felt better that way - he always did.  
At that moment, Hulk let out a short, pleased "ah" and stood up straight again.  
  
"There she comes. Damn, that is one container..."  
He took off and jogged down to help Candice with the large water container, and Dean would have, too, if the two of them hadn't together filled up all available space around the thing.  
Instead, both Dean and Castiel stood up and stepped away from the ramp's mouth - Castiel was handed the key and he opened the door for them. Dean went in last.

"First door on right," Candice reminded them when the door closed.  
She'd landed the container on the floor and Hulk stood beside her rubbing his arms, glancing at the door where Alex had disappeared through hours earlier. Dean still didn't know what was in there.

"Thanks," he heard himself saying and flashed a smile at the tall woman.

"Eh, any friend of Ellen's. Dave, get this thing out of here, I don't want to pick it up anymore. I'm heading back to bed. There's food in the kitchen if you're interested."

Dean and Castiel exchanged looks and decided they had been dismissed. The walk downstairs felt like descending from hell to heaven despite the impatience growing inside Dean with every step he took. The staircase leading to the basement smelled of fresh planks: a comfortable, homely scent in combination with the scents lingering in there from the meals served in the main room.  
"I swear they're going to butcher us in our sleep or something, this is way, way too good to be real," he muttered when they reached the doorway to a small corridor with rooms on each side of the door.

"I don't think they need to. It's good business," Castiel noted, "Candice gets everything she needs from the people who need people like her."

"I guess. Damn."  
The door creaked a little when Dean pushed the handle down and opened it ajar. Inside, darkness was thick and smelled of wood just like the corridor did - the beds were army model portables but even with them, the room looked as homely as the rest of the place with a table, four chairs and a large round carpet laid in the middle of the floor with the each bed set against its own wall. Sam was sleeping next to the door, or at least he had been as now his open eyes followed Dean inside, but he looked like he'd just woken up and not like he'd stayed awake the whole night.

"Keep sleeping, Sammy."  
  
The younger let out a displeased sound and turned his back to them, bringing his blanket up to his ears to block out the light from the corridor.  
Castiel followed Dean inside and closed the door, leaving them in pitch black dark. Dean hit the table with his hands and he found his way around it by touch - Castiel's fingers were grabbing his shirt and he followed him wherever he was going. 

"This is stupid," the angel muttered.

"Shut up," Dean told him.

Sam slammed a hand over the light switch that neither of the newcomers had seen. Castiel's hand slid down along Dean's back and fell down to enter his own pocket a little unwillingly - Dean's hand was still on the table and the other hung uselessly by his side. He turned to look at Sam, whose expression delivered the clear signs of frustration with a visible hint of amusement thrown in the mix. His hair was sticking up and he looked vaguely like a lion.  
"What time is it? You - you two look awful, damn it."

Dean blinked at the younger and brought a hand to awkwardly adjust his jacket again.   
"Awful? I'd say we're stunning," he grinned just as awkwardly and turned to spread a sheet over the bed - everything was laid on top of the pillow at one end of it, so he didn't have to go digging through his own things for necessities.  
"As for the time... 'round sunrise. I'm gonna catch my four hours so you can just lie back down, no need to bother getting up yet."

Castiel had turned to the other bed and was working on it quietly. While his neck didn't look near as bad as Dean feared his looked, it was still bruised and scratched, and he knew exactly what Sam meant by the two of them looking awful. The marks they'd left on each other weren't exactly telling the kind of a story that Dean remembered. 

"I - I think I'm just going to see if there's some coffee up there," Sam chuckled, standing up.  
"I'll wake you up whenever." 

"You sure?" 

"Yeah. You can have, uh, some privacy. Some  _more_  privacy, I mean," the younger replied and pulled on a shirt, "I've slept enough, anyway."

Dean sat on his freshly made bed and examined his brother. Then he nodded.  
"Okay."  
He didn't have anything else to add. A certain tension had lingered between them ever since the fight they'd had at the stables, but for now that was gone and without it, he was unsure how to be around the other. 

Sam flashed an awkward smile at him, picked up the bag the books were in and vanished out the door. Dean kept looking after him for a while in silence, head buzzing, but eventually Castiel caught his attention - the older was looking at him with an unreadable expression.  
"What?" he asked defensively. 

"Nothing," Castiel replied, "I was just thinking if I'd dare to ask could I move my bed next to yours now that it won't bother him."

Dean blushed.  
"Bring it," he grunted and laid down in his bed.


	63. Michael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, wow, it's been a hundred years since I put out a chapter. I wish I could even say I've _written_ some, but I've just mainly been breathing in paper bags and remarathoning Supernatural, so I can't, and I'm sorry. Regardless, now that I'm capable, I'll try to put a couple out there for you at once. Yay for productivity. Or not.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~  
  


The gates of Camp Chitaqua opened not to a forest but to a meadow. Dean pushed the other open and it didn't creak like usual, instead sliding open effortlessly and without the fallen corner getting stuck in the muddy road that had ceased to exist. He was still barefooted, wearing a light shirt over a pair of grey, soft sweatpants he'd preferred to sleep in years ago. The sky was overcast but he felt warm: the meadow he was waist-deep in wasn't actually a meadow, either, it was a field. Golden wheat grew all over it and it had no end - Chitaqua's gates fell slowly behind and vanished into the glow of gold. Dean kept walking, unsure where he was headed for but not all that keen to care. He felt restful and good here, and the stalks did not prickle at his feet. The soil was dry and soft and warm wherever he stepped, and the only stones he walked over were rounded like in a riverbed.

The sunlight had strange colour to it, its rays bending through the atmosphere and breaking into shades of rainbows everywhere: the sky was the bluest of blue from its very center, an intense shade of a cloudless early afternoon, shades of green from the edges and then softening as if into a sunset without the glow of pure red to be seen so that the field seemed to be one with the sky in the horizon, as if the whole realm existed in a glass globe. The gold that stretched ahead changed in shade as often as it changed in shape, wind blowing not only the wheat but its tint as well. Sometimes it was bright yellow, at other times a dimmed tone of antique gold, and the waves that crossed through made it alive with all the shades that came inbetween.  
The wind carried what looked like the thinnest of mists, shading only the very edges of Dean's vision. The mist bent the light into shades of opalescent purple and gas-like green, but it was so faint that it merely tinted the full view, and no matter how hard he tried, Dean couldn't extract it from the vision.

On his chest, the weight of his amulet moved with him, the horns of the idol pressing one at a time against his shirt and chest like the comforting touches of a good friend. He brought a hand over it to feel the brazen shape, searching with his eyes for something he still wasn't aware of.  
He walked for minutes that lasted for hours, and slowly he realised that no matter how far he would walk, the field would never end. He could spend an eternity travelling its distance and he would never, ever find an edge. Once he crossed a path that looked like it separated two fields, but when he looked further along it, halfway through it started growing the occasional stalk of gold and eventually vanished entirely again, becoming one with the rest like it had never existed at all.

The most peculiar thing was the never-ending music of wind chimes. There wasn't a single chime hung up anywhere near Dean and he did try looking for them - he even crawled a short distance, just in case there were hidden chimes between the wheat, but he found none. Their sounds were soft and barely audible, mixing in with the eager chirping of birds, but if he really stayed to try and pick apart one of the birds, it faded, and he started suspecting that perhaps the birds did not exist at all - perhaps it was his mind injecting them into the scenery.  
That curiosity slowly awakened him to the realisation that he was dreaming. It didn't happen often, but sometimes a detail bothered him into taking control, and this time, that detail was the birds. Gaining this awareness usually allowed him to affect the world around him, but here, despite trying, he could not switch out the endless field and the chiming into a proper strip bar or even the calm of a lake. He'd never dreamed of fabulous fields before and he felt uncomfortable being stuck here. He stopped walking and willed himself to wake up.

Nothing happened.  
Nothing, if he did not count the appearance of a man from between the waves of gold.

Frowning, he stood still and waited, but the man (was it a man?) stood still further away and seemed to flicker in and out of view not like a ghost but as if he was part of the field, part of its _essence_ and magic: one and the same with everything around him.  
The faceoff seemed to come down to either standing there forever or Dean budging, and Dean chose curiosity over pride. His feet lifted from the soil and he treaded carefully, not sure how he was supposed to defend himself against a mirage in a dream but ready to do so regardless.  
The closer he got, the harder it was for him to continue. Not in here but in another realm his heartbeat was picking up and he felt anxious, fearful. Despite the magic fields of rainbows and wind chimes, there was nothing comforting about the man he was closing up to, and he could hardly breathe as he struggled forwards despite his whole body screaming for him to stop.  
And then there he was, standing in front of the other, small and weak in comparison to the tall, slender being who was most definitely not a man at all. The being had eyes like fire and its skin reflected light - this was what had created the illusion of its body being less than physical.  
Dean knew what it was, but he had a hard time believing it. The angels were gone, they were _gone_ and they weren't coming back - not to mention the douchewads he'd met before had never done the whole biblical shebang to begin with, just picked a suit guy off the street and popped in with the only epic scale traits left to them being the sizes of their egos and arrogance.  
They stood in silence and watched one another, or at least Dean was watching the creature in front of him whereas it was very hard for him to tell just exactly what the other was looking at. He couldn't help the feeling however that he was being watched very closely.

The whole game was ridiculous, but he was terrified. There was no denying it - he might not have fallen on his face like the people in scriptures but something about the other was offputting in such a fearsome manner it made him tremble either way.  
In the horizon, purple mountains slowly grew over the skyline. Their ragged edges looked like the blade of a broken sword. No sound whatsoever was let out by the event; the earth did not quake and the air did not move. The wind chimes did not stop nor did their sound turn more pressing.

Finally, the angel - if it was that - spoke.  
"The world is in shatters," he said, and his voice was like the rumbling of the growing mountains, as if he was channeling that through his mouth, and it was now that Dean's legs betrayed him.  
He fell on his knees in the midst of the wheat and the hand with which he'd balanced himself there was connected to an arm that did not hold any better than his legs were doing.  
He gasped and forced himself to look up - he did not bow to this thing, he would not no matter how indifferent the being was to his consent. Mountains did not make his neck bend. Nothing did, nothing but his own choice. This creature was no different.  
  
Then it spoke again and he fell face first into the dirt. No questions asked; shame burned his skin beneath the layer of sleep.

"It was your choice."

_Fierce and absolute._

The ground was shaking now.

"You are in the Garden. God has commanded it. God has spoken, and His will shall be done."

 _Heaven's most fearsome weapon.  
_ Dean grimaced. He felt his body shaking in the real word, perhaps convulsing; he couldn't wake up.

 _Dicks. Dicks and douches_ , his mind added to the echo of memories as if to remind himself of the fact.

Two months ago he would have given _anything_ to be here. Now he just wanted out. Some lessons, it seemed, were never learned.  
The soil tasted of exactly what one would expect from soil despite its unearthly qualities, and Dean was having a mouthful of it. He spat and forced his head up, fought his way back on his knees and his eyes up to the creature whose form was perfection made flesh and flesh turned to perfected stone. A live statue; cold and uncaring.

"Michael," he huffed, wiping off the earth from his dream lips, "Quite an entry. The whole - whole Cullen look got old years ago, though."

The angel's look burned him. It burned him physically like a torch being pressed against his face, like glowing charcoal digging into his skin, and the pain made him black out for a moment; it wasn't fainting, it was fading from existence, it was _dying_ and ceasing to be - when the feeling lifted, he gasped and coughed.

"You've really got no sense of humour, do you," he wheezed, hand pressing to his throat and slipping down to grip the amulet again, "but at least you didn't send one of your pawns down this time, so I guess I've gotta hand it to you."

He expected another temporary death, like a brand forced upon his soul, but nothing more happened. He was still strangulated by the aura of the apparition but the longer he stayed in it, the more he could function despite it. There were things that he'd always found unfair about supernatural creatures, and one of these were the auras. People had auras, too, but they did not incite direct emotion like a supernatural aura could. They did not inject you with madness or fear so profound it made your mind turn blind and bend like wax to the will of another. People's auras were softer and plain, something one could mix into and interact with - they created atmospheres, gave impressions. Monster auras, demonic auras, angelic auras... they were plain cheating, akin to instant poison that did not need a stinger to infect both the soul and the body.

The sun in the sky moved steadily around, having now reached the peaks of the newly grown mountains behind them. Dean looked at the angel again and breathed in and out and in and out again, waiting.  
Clearly the ball was in his hands - the angel did nothing, reacted to nothing, and the day had turned to night around them with two moons that were not moons but rather hazy planets crawling sluggishly to replace the sun.  
The lighting of the scenery had not changed.  
"Are you going to ask me or not?"

"I will not ask."

Now the voice seemed to consist of the screams of a million people. Dean had heard the words but it was not that which felt like an icicle piercing him through; it was the hundred thousand other words he'd heard that buried themselves in his brain and echoed like in a cave. They were desperate cries for help, prayers of strangers, ending with the voice dying with the gurgling sounds of a person choking on his or her own blood. There were weak whispers like touches upon his skin but they were just as audible to him from through the massiveness of the rest, small and worn words dripping from dying lips that were starved and parched and drained of blood; crying of children and adults alike, fear in their voices as they called out the name of the angel in as many languages and accents as there were voices overall; sounds that were almost animal but produced by the human throat, their infected voices calling out to that same guardian their tainted body had forsaken.

He was drowning in it all, and silently in the midst he fell under the gold and just let go.

 

*

 

"Dean - Dean. Please wake up. Please, please wake up."

He had arms around him - a strong pair holding him tight but not too tight, he was still able to breathe. There was _something_ on his face and he was wet with sweat and his nose was stuffed with some kind of liquid that he didn't know if belonged there at all. He tried to breathe but he had too much of the same blocking his airways and he gagged, body convulsing haplessly as if his muscles were already spent beyond the breaking point. He'd pulled some for sure and he had absolutely no idea what had happened to him, but when he finally held his eyes open, he saw Castiel, and that clamed him down.

He drew breath through an opening in the layers blocking his throat and although the inhale was raspy and hoarse, it brought in oxygen. He coughed, breaking through more of it, and with a swallow he had his throat and even the layers blocking his nose clearing up at an acceptable efficiency. Although his arm trembled when he moved it, he brought his hand over to his mouth to wipe off the saliva that felt as if it covered half of his face.  
He was too exhausted to move or say anything, so he simply looked up at the older, begging for any answers at all; it was a blessing to be that close, to know he was being looked after even if he wasn't sure if he was going to be alright in the end.

Before he knew more than the relief that spread over the male's features at the signs of life in him, sleep came over him and he fell unconscious again from pure physical exhaustion.


	64. Bed & Breakfast

~*~ ~*~ ~*~  
  


Early birds had woken up outside when Sam laid down his bag and settled at the table. He'd chosen the side facing the doors and the stairs with his back turned towards the kitchen. There had been a large container with some warm coffee inside left on the counter in there and that was good enough for him - he wasn't going back downstairs to dig out their own coffee and he was far from certain whether or not he was allowed to use the Candice's stocks either, so this was a welcome compromise.

The fire was still going - there were fresh blocks of wood in there so someone had recently filled it up, which meant that there were people awake already, or perhaps still. Sam was fairly certain that Dean and Castiel had not bothered, if they'd ever even stopped here on their way downstairs, but even with them out of count he couldn't know which of the remaining people could be up at this hour.  
Noting this, however, he was prepared to receive company, and kept his ears open even as he read.  
From the open ventilation window in the kitchen, facing directly underneath the ramp, gentle breezes of cold and slightly moist morning air sometimes drifted indoors and brushed against his back. He didn't exactly know what he was looking for; he kept checking the notes on Pestilence's movements and felt determined to divine his next ones from a pattern that was hidden somewhere within the lore. He could almost hear his brains working on it, yet even despite having rested well the previous night, the numbers and mentions were just as empty of meaning as they had been before. An itch developed at the base of his skull and he kept scratching it absently - when it was gone, his fingers stayed to tug and pull at the hair around the spot with an occasional huff or a sigh crossing his lips.

Half an hour into studying the same texts he could almost recite from memory, his concentration started falling apart from the lack of fresh clues. He'd crossed the area of interest and entered the irrelevant pages that followed after concerning lore on beasts of hell and instead of backing up to read the chapters on Horsemen for the umpteenth time he picked up a pen and started making sketches of the beasts instead based on the varying descriptions offered.  
Hellhounds were fun to draw, if not quite as fun to think about; they were described uniformly as beasts with no physical form, but visible sometimes resembling a bundle of dog-shaped fire or gas. Of course, many of the accounts on hellhounds were actually describing other creatures: black dogs and shucks for the main part, but those were relatively easy to tell from one another. He'd hunted them, he _knew_ them. The only time he'd seen hellhounds up close was when they tore his brother apart and even that could hardly count since his visual account of the situation involved no evidence of an actual hound at all.

For comparison, he drew a shuck next to the best impression he'd managed. He wasn't much of an artist, but neither had been their father, and his sketches had always proven to be more than helpful along the years no matter how weak, and when Sam really put effort in, he was still quite a bit better than John had been. Art hadn't been his best subject in school but he'd gotten good grades for it, grades that had been skimmed over by his father just like the rest of those he'd never need to survive, like English - one of his strongest.

The upstairs floor creaked. Footsteps wandered along the middle of it and Sam lifted his gaze to the stairs, waiting. In a moment, the jean-covered legs of Alex appeared on them. The tall, slim man walked down without noticing Sam at all, a golden bottle of _El Sol_ in his hand - the mist gathering upon the bottle's surface spoke of a cold, refreshing drink. The things this place had in it, the younger man thought absently.  
As he watched, Alex lifted his gaze and jumped at the sight of him.

"Jesus Christ," the man snarled, hand over his empty belt, "Dude."

Sam grimaced.  
"Sorry," he offered.

"Sorry ain't quite cutting that, man," the other man huffed.  
He'd recovered enough to continue walking and heaved himself on the bench opposite from Sam's, but not quite opposite from him - he sat in the middle, whereas Sam had chosen to settle a short distance to the right from there.  
"Had to wake up early," the older continued then, opening his bottle in a similar manner to how Dean always opened his, "let in a couple with their war wagon. You seen that thing? Hard to believe it used to be a fricken' trailer. Now it's more like a - a tank. Painted it camo and reinforced it and there are holes for guns and everything. They've stayed far up in a croat zone, too, once. For fun they said."

Sam raised his brows.  
"Who are they?" he asked.

"Grunnings? Gunnings - I don't remember. Something like that. I'm excused: from remembering, that is. Nobody 'round here remembers my name, either, so it's kind of a common deal. Alemayehu. Someone started shortening it to Alex for convenience. Alex is a girl name. I don't care. They - the Grun, Gunnings, whatever - don't have much to do with us other folk, too good to share whatever they up to, but y'know, Candice's services. They need her, and she kinda need them, too."  
Alex sipped his beer looking lost in thought - his eyes wandered about the window in the kitchen, to which he had a straight view from where he sat.  
"What you reading, anyway?" he asked then.

Sam considered for a moment, finally coming to the conclusion there really was no reason to keep it from him, either. It wasn't a super secret mission - nobody alive had anything to do with Pestilence, Pestilence didn't need information. Lucifer had given up on human informants a long time ago for everything but a few missions and from all he knew, which was a lot more than anyone else knew, the Horsemen had as little to do with humans as possible outside their immediate area of influence. They preferred the remaining demons for company and convenience, which was why the demons generally flocked to their tails to be spared from Lucifer's cleansing.  
And considering the guests all been waterboarded with holy water before dinner, Alex was probably as clean as they came.

"Heard of Pestilence in Kansas," he began thoughtfully, flipped through the pages until hitting the right area and then turned the book around and pushed it across the table to the other, "Thought we'd do some reading on him."

"Yeah?"  
Alex leaned over the book, landing his bottle further away from the book to avoid ruining it.  
"You in the team apocalypse, then?"

"Uh," Sam chuckled, unprepared, "I - what? I mean - I guess so? I know for a fact that Pestilence is real, we hit up with War years ago. That kind of convinced on the matter."  
That and the rest he certainly as hell wasn't going to talk about.

"Haven't heard of any physical War. Outside scripture, 'course I've read the scripture."  
Alex kept reading for a while, dragging a finger across the notes hanging between the pages. Sam watched him and didn't know what he would make of it all - he'd clearly realised they were tracking the Horsemen, but he had no idea if he'd catch up on the rest. He took his time and Sam allowed him that, since he wasn't exactly in a hurry. His coffee ran out and he went to get a refill, returned and found the man in the exact same position as he'd left him in.  
Finally, after maybe forty minutes of silence during which Sam had mainly stared at him or the fire with his mind empty from thought, Alex stirred again.

"You guys've done a real throughout job here," he muttered, "everything's about on the right place, too. You've got the timeline wrong on one part... there wasn't anything up in Kansas before... here."  
He grabbed Sam's pen and scribbled over the page where the timeline was, crossing over dates and replacing them with his own. Sam was about to interrupt him, but then he slammed the book closed and offered it back to him.  
"I was in there, you know. When he came."

"Wait, what?"  
Sam grabbed the book but had somehow forgotten how heave it was, and his wrist gave in underneath it, leaving his hand trapped between the book and the table when it fell down.

"Yea. We had a real nice place set up, too. Then one day, it just got real bad. An old guy came in town, nobody suspected much, and then bang, croatoan everywhere. Everyone got it. Me and a couple of my friends made the run for it but Dana got cut and bled on and that was it for her, had to shoot her, poor girl. Wasn't older than twenty, real survivor that one, but yup, nobody last forever. So I hadn't believed in this whole apocalypse thing before and I don't know about it now, I mean, I'm a religious man, I have faith, I know my God, I know this is all according to some plan of His and I ain't questioning that. I just didn't use to think it was, you know. Seen monsters in my while. Seen chaos in my while. It ain't a big deal, you see. Civilizations fall. You Americans think you're special but you're not. Everything runs out, everything has an end, and the Lord has His reasons. So... I saw that guy and I don't know anymore."

Sam leaned back, hand slipping off the table and onto his lap instead. The other was out from under the book and grabbing his cup of coffee - Alex emptied his bottle of beer and looked into the fire.  
"He's moving our way, but he ain't busy," the older spoke after a moment, "Took the path 'round Wichita, I think he set up camp there for a bit. Might still be around. Definitely not far off, in any case."

"You tracked him?" Sam asked, dumbfound.

"Kinda," Alex admitted, shrugging and pushing the book back to him, "Biggest game I ever bumped into. No way of killing him either. It's like an avalanche. You've just gotta get out of the way. But if you've seen War - then there's bigger game out there."  
The man turned to look at Sam and his expression was dead serious but asking, not demanding.  
"Then there's Death."

Sam looked away from him and into the fire.  
"That's what we think. So... you're in the team apocalypse, too, then."

Alex chuckled.  
"I told you, I don't know," he replied, appearing relaxed once more, "Sure does look like it, though. I haven't seen any angels and I haven't been asked what team I'm on before now, so if it's the big one, then it's coming a whole lot different than pretold. But I guess that's the thing you get when you have an old book and a lot of translations and misinterpretation."

Smoke swirled up from the burning wood and Sam realised he had nothing more to say.

 

*

 

Dean shifted. His face was buried into something soft and warm and solid enough to restrict breathing. At first he though it was a pillow, but as his mind woke up some more, he realised dully that it was flesh, much firmer and not quite as comfortable under his head.  
That realisation grew into awareness of being held; he blinked, fingers seeking out the arm that kept him still. He felt like he had been raised from the dead - again.

"Cas?" he called out weakly, voice rough like he'd spent the past hour throwing up something with chili in it.  
Castiel shifted around him and his chin soon pressed against Dean's hair. They weren't in the beds anymore, but Dean wasn't entirely sure _where_ they were.  
He put all his willpower into fighting the weight of his flesh and lifted his head. They were on the floor; his body rested on top of Castiel's, and Castiel was leaning to the wall. His bed was where it had been before Castiel had moved it next to Dean's, and the two of them were sitting next to the latter.  
Dean lowered his head again and closed his eyes.  
He remembered having the strangest dreams and something important relating to one of them, but the surroundings of that particular memory were like a swamp after a downpour, he felt like sinking just thinking about it, and no part of him was strong enough to fight through. He gave up and concentrated on the now instead.

Only once he started becoming more aware of what surrounded him did he notice that Castiel was trembling underneath him. His fingers slid from the male's arm and reached for his face instead - he stroked him gently despite the weakness of his hand and then, when he couldn't hold it up anymore, he brought it down around the older's waist. Castiel tightened his hold around him and his bearded chin rubbed against the top of Dean's head, and he felt a certain moisture like raindrops landing and spreading into his hair.  
He closed his eyes again and held the older, listening to his heartbeat change rythm like it couldn't decide which would serve him best.

"Cas, if it's - me you're... you know... I'm okay, really, just... a little tired."

The hold around him got even tighter for a moment, then relaxed a little. The older sniffed and kept on not replying. Instead, his hand ran through Dean's hair and stopped by the back of his neck, and Dean realised it wasn't just for his comfort but to make sure he didn't get up now and look, as soon after the older pressed his face down against his hair and his body tensed up.  
  
Dean couldn't remember ever seeing him cry, not a single tear - yet now there were many and even though it all happened in unbroken silence, the manner his body moved would have been enough to tell Dean the whole story even if his tears weren't wetting up his hair.  
He let the angel be until the trembling subsided and his hold got looser again. Then he struggled free and without really looking, he took the male's head between his hands and kissed him, although he at first tried to struggle, thinking Dean wanted to turn his head up so he could look. Instead, Dean held his eyes closed and just tasted the salt from his skin - if Castiel wanted to keep it hidden, Dean would let him. He would have preferred that for himself, too, but nobody ever granted him the right to suffer with dignity, it always had to be revealed.

When the kiss broke, he leaned his forehead against Castiel's and made sure to never once let go of him as he slid his palms down from his jaws and down back onto his waist. Castiel's hands held him by his and they breathed recycled air again, just staying close, and Dean still had no idea what had happened to get them there.  
He didn't quite dare to ask, not yet.  
From above, he could hear faint footsteps, and from their pace and weight he knew that it was Sam walking. The knowledge gave him unexpected comfort in contrast to the anxiety he felt in his own state. He found his fingers from slowly caressing the male's back and wished he'd say something to make the tension dissolve.

"What did you see?" Castiel spoke then, as if having read his mind.  
His voice was small and shy, but it was his voice, and that was good. The question he'd asked made little sense to Dean, however.

"See... when?"

"In your dream."

Silence had its own static noise. It was cut by a loud, long and deafening ringing that momentarily took over inside Dean's left ear, but when that was gone, it slid back into domination. The angel's hand had reached up between Dean's shoulderblades and stroked slowly down along his spine, always returning to the previous position when it reached the small of his back. Those were long, comforting strokes that did have an effect on Dean, as he felt himself relaxing to this touch now that they'd established what resembled normal communication.

"I don't remember," he replied, ashamed.  
He truly did not.  
"I think I - I think it's not gone completely. I think it's just... locked."

"Was it Lucifer?"

"What? No," Dean hurried to correct, pulling up.  
He placed a hand over Castiel's chest in a subconscious effort to preserve the feel of his heartbeat against his skin.  
"It wasn't him. I don't know how I know but it wasn't Lucifer, because that sounds about as absurd as having been visited by Voldemort."

"Who?"  
  
Dean rolled his eyes.  
"At this point, Cas, you really have no excuse," he huffed, " _You know who_."

A faint smile crossed the older's lips. Dean enjoyed the memory of that for just a passing moment before falling serious and into a frown.

"I don't know what I saw," he repeated, as if to convince himself now that a suspicion had caught his attention.  
He tried digging into it but a flash of a splitting headache warned him against it - his eyes watered and he closed them, breathing deep to recover.  
"I need breakfast," he finally concluded.

Castiel nodded.  
"Breakfast sounds beneficial."

The dim yellow light of the room somehow felt less yellow and more natural on his skin. Dean firced himself away from it and climbed on his feet, feeling shaky but almost back to normal in every other sense. The older seemed relieved by his control and balance - Dean allowed himself to look as the other wiped his face dry on the blanket and grimaced, as if to say the sheets were going to get washed anyway.  
Dean wished they'd had the brains yesterday to think about washing their clothes and sheets and whatnots now that they had the chance, but that chance was gone and he was starving, so he decided not to dwell upon the fact. At least he'd had great sex. Laundry was perhaps more useful than that, but it felt nowhere near as good.

He reached his hand to pull Castiel back on his feet and the joining of their hands felt like the most welcome thing so far.  
"Man, I hope they have bacon," he thought out loud as they exited the room.  
  
Castiel let out a small, exhausted laughter.


End file.
